


Bound in Chains

by Danica_Dust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Bondage, Oral Sex, Secrets, Slow Build, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 23:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danica_Dust/pseuds/Danica_Dust
Summary: House Seraphon… House Campbell… Two royal houses once embroiled in a bloody feud… Nearly forty years of peace now broken in an instant…Sir Dean Winchester has been captured, beaten, locked in a dungeon, and wrongfully accused of kidnapping and oath-breaking. Determined to free himself and clear up several misunderstandings, Dean does not count on the determined nature of his captor, Lord Castiel Seraphon. After several attempts at escape, the lord orders him bound and chained to a wall in his chambers. While the lord's stubbornness infuriates him, Dean cannot deny that everything else about him drives him to distraction. Soon, Dean finds it hard to remember his mission of escape.When Lord Castiel of House Seraphon first lays eyes on his prisoner, one thing about him is abundantly clear: Sir Dean of Mortaleigh is a dangerous man. Yet, he must show him no fear. The captured knights from Mortaleigh are his only clue in the mystery surrounding the disappearance of House Seraphon’s sons. As he searches for answers, he never expects the surge of passion that ignites between them. The longer Dean remains in his clutches, the more Castiel realizes that though he has him chained, he is the one who has been captured.





	1. An Excerpt

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2019. Thank you to the mods for organizing! It was my first challenge and thank you, thank you, thank you the kick in the butt to finish this on a deadline!
> 
> A big shout out and thank you to the thefandomsinhalor for your beta-ing and support! Go check out her TWO(!) works for this challenge! Seriously, they are amazing.
> 
> And finally, thank you to all the readers out there for checking this out! Love you all!

**AN EXCERPT**

_ Chapter 1: A Summary _

_It was fifty years ago when the Blight hit the small continent of Liscalis, and at the time, there were two kingdoms residing there_

_The first kingdom was Mortaleigh, made up of the people native to Liscalis with history spanning back generations._

_The second was Calistamar, which had only been founded a mere five years earlier, only two years after Elyon Seraphon (then known as Chuck Shurley) and his sister had washed up on Liscalis’ shores after the massive earthquake that had broken the continent in two. That event would become known as the Great Divide._

_In the aftermath of the Great Divide, the siblings had united the people on the smaller western side of Liscalis under their own banner, founding Calistamar._

_After the Blight came, Calistamar, with its smaller land area, yet more densely populated twin cities of Burnamar in the south and Granamar in the north, was the hardest hit by the food shortages. Within three years, Calistamar was suffering a state of famine._

_Mortaleigh, on the other hand, with its larger land area, widely dispersed population, and multitude of fertile plains (including secluded plains hidden between mountain ranges, which isolated the fields from the Blight), was not immune to the famine, but they were persevering well._

_Desperate, Elyon, Calistamar’s reigning king, sent his sister, Amara, to negotiate with Mortaleigh’s king, Samuel Campbell, for food._

_Unfortunately, what Elyon did not know, was that Amara did not see why they should talk when they could take. She believed that to negotiate was to show weakness and felt that if they accepted a handout from Mortaleigh, they would forever be considered the lesser of the two kingdoms._

_And so, Amara betrayed her brother, and instead of a peaceful party, she marched on Mortaleigh with the full force of Calistamar’s army, which she commanded and was loyal to her over Elyon._

_On route to Mortaleigh’s capital city of Ashbourne, her army decimated the river-side town of East Aquare._

_When King Samuel heard the news of the army marching through his kingdom, he immediately wanted to retaliate._

_However, the society of advisors closest to the crown, known collectively as the Men of Letters and led by the Royal Advisor, Henry Winchester, discovered Amara’s betrayal of her bother and advised King Samuel to send an envoy to Elyon in an attempt at maintaining peace._

_But with a town destroyed, the people of Mortaleigh were furious and clamouring for revenge, which King Samuel had promptly promised them._

_And so, the kingdoms of Calistamar and Mortaleigh entered into a war that would last for twelve long years._

_During the years of the Blight War, the kingdom of Hellspyre, located on the continent to the west of Liscalis, closest to Calistamar, aided Calistamar with shipments of food and supplies. Hellspyre was desirous of Calistamar’s wealth of knowledge and cerebral-based magic, known as Grace._

_In exchange for the supplies, Hellspyre demanded this knowledge from Calistamar scholars and training from Grace-users so that they could twist it into their own dark form of sorcery._

_In addition, they supplied troops to fight in the war in exchange for a promise to one day unite their kingdoms through the union of their bloodlines._

_Mortaleigh, with its own brand of corporeal Magick, held its own against Calistamar and Hellspyre’s joined forces._

_The Blight had finally ended by the third year of the War, yet by that time, the casualties and grievances between the two Liscalis kingdoms were so high that neither could concede without significant fallout._

_However, after twelve years and much loss, during a year when the latest consort of King Elyon of Calistamar and the recently crowned Queen Mary Campbell of Mortaleigh, both gave birth to sons three weeks apart, the two rulers became determined to figure out a way to make peace._

_It took nearly another year of negotiations, but the two kingdoms were finally able to come to a mutual agreement and sign a peace treaty, declaring the War to be over at long last._

_The signing of the Peace Treaty was a huge celebration. It was hosted by both kingdoms in the ruins of West Aquare and East Aquare—the two towns that had seen the worst of the fighting due to their location at either end of the sole bridge connecting the two kingdoms. This location was chosen in order to remind the two kingdoms of the ravages of war and inspire promises to rebuild anew._

_\- The Blight War_

Carver Edlund


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

The kitchen was in chaos—an organized kind of chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Castiel stood in the corner and was trying his best not to get in the way of all the kitchen staff rushing to and fro. Of the regular staff, the portly palace chef barked orders at his four cooks, who in turn snapped quick commands at their kitchen maids and boys, all of whom delegated various tasks to the scullery underlings, working diligently and silently.

Typically busy providing food to the entire palace on a normal day, on that particular day… Well, Castiel could only imagine how long these folk had been working and how many additional bakers, butchers, grocers, wild game hunters and fishmongers, among others, had been involved in the preparations for that night.

Even as Castiel watched, deliveries were being made, servers were picking up finished trays, and a multitude of coachmen and footmen were being served their own dinners.

Iron pots and pans clanged. Knives thudded rhythmically against wooden cutting boards. Cooking utensils struck and scrapped against crockery and serving-ware alike. Liquids bubbled and sloshed. Both the fires and the meat cooking upon them crackled, hissed, and spit in disharmony. Not to mention the voices.

All in all, it added up to a cacophonous pandemonium that Castiel would have much preferred to avoid. The smells though… The smells were heavenly. The aroma of spices and herbs mixed with pungent onions and garlic. The sweetness of the sugared desserts clashed pleasantly with the savoury scents of the roasting meats.

In one section of the large kitchen, Castiel observed two boys plucking a large number of doves, which if counted, he was sure would add up to sixty.

Sixtieth doves for the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of Calistamar—the kingdom which they all called home. Already, he could hear a gradually increasing roar of voices from outside the kitchen, rising over the din of shouts, clanging and chopping within.

The guests of that night’s celebrations had started to trickle in over an hour ago, but based on the noise travelling through the continually swinging doors leading into the ballroom, the vast majority had arrived with the setting of the sun just a short while ago. Castiel was sure there would still be guests coming and going throughout the night and well into the small hours before dawn.

After all, from the number of invitations that had been signed, sealed, and delivered, Michael had invited every single person of note in the kingdom of Calistamar to the palace. His brother never missed an opportunity flaunt his accomplishments in front of the nobility.

And yet, those members of Calistamar’s high society were only a drop in the bucket of the droves of common folk who had flocked to the northern capital over the past few days. The result being that Granamar, Castiel’s native city, was bursting at the seams to make room for all the extra people. That afternoon, he had glanced out the palace windows to watch the common folk starting their own celebrations early down in the streets.

Castiel could only compare the current atmosphere of unrestrained joviality to the fiftieth anniversary a decade ago. Back then, despite being thirty years old at the time and long past the age of youthful recklessness, he too had been caught up in the spirit of the occasion. After imbibing copious amounts of alcohol (at Gabriel’s encouragement), it had quickly become a period of time he would much rather forget. Unfortunately, he knew he never would after Gabriel’s _helpful_ memory charm to bring back his memories of that night resulted in it being forever locked in his memories.

Right then, Castiel just longed to find a place to sit by himself with a cup of tea. A book, too, would be nice, but he wasn’t certain he could sneak even his smallest paperback under the light gray, form-fitting formal suit that he was wearing.

In addition, Michael had also appointed him as the Master of Ceremonies for the event, and so Castiel had a duty to ensure that everything ran as smoothly as an event this size could. He was just fortunate that most of the actual event planning had already been done by someone else.

Speaking of that someone else… The outer door of the kitchen leading to the delivery laneway opened, letting in a draft of chilly air and a stumbling Gabriel. Just before the door shut behind him, Castiel spotted a dark-haired woman with lots of curves and a pout on her rouged lips.

A long-necked bottle in one hand, Gabriel used the other to swipe a small appetizer from a cooling tray before making his way over to Castiel. His light-brown hair was in disarray, dusted with snow, and his suit was mussed and damp-looking. There was what look suspiciously like a grass stain on the formally pure-white fabric.

“Did you steal that from the ballroom?” asked Castiel, gesturing to the wine, his voice one hundred percent accusatory.

“Of course not.” Gabriel popped the canape into his mouth and spoke around it. “I ordered ten caskets of wine and thirty barrels of beer sent out to the nice folks camping out on our lawn. To help keep them warm, of course. Then to let them show their gratitude, I joined them. It’s started to snow again, by the way.”

Castiel sighed.

“Speaking of gratitude, you’re welcome.” Gabriel’s tone was light, but Castiel detected a hint of resentfulness underneath the sarcasm.

“You know it wasn’t my idea. Michael—”

“I know, I know.” Gabriel waved his free hand in the air. “So Michael sayith, so shall it be done.” Another appetizer disappeared from a passing tray. “Despite knowing full well that I was planning this shindig, he’s taken all responsibility for it away from me and dumped it on you so I can _socialize_.” Gabriel used air quotes on the final word. “Now you get to take all the credit for my spectacular ideas after I’ve already done the hard work.”

“You _are_ a prince. You’re expected to be socializing with the other royals and nobles tonight, not chasing after a missing floral arrangement.”

Gabriel snorted, swaying slightly. Castiel wondered how much wine and beer he had consumed already. “First of all, I would never need to chase flora. Beauty just gravitates to me.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “Second, you’re a prince too.”

“Only by half.”

Gabriel swung the arm with the nearly empty bottle around Castiel’s neck. Had it been any fuller, the contents would have been all over Castiel’s suit. As it was, the fruity scent of the wine wafted into his face. “Cheer up, brother—”

“Half-brother.”

“The night’s only just started,” he continued, ignoring Castiel’s comment. “Plenty of time for both duty and fun. I’ll socialize and you’ll manage, and then we’ll both make our escapes. Me to the festivities and frolics of the common folk, and you—” Gabriel poked his chest. “Probably to your room to read a book or something.”

“You’re drunk. I have no idea how you manage to speak coherently while inebriated.”

Gabriel grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “If you ask nicely, maybe one day I’ll teach you.”

Castiel shook his head and pushed Gabriel’s arm off. Gabriel simply hopped up to sit on the counter, nearly missing in the process.

Gabriel was right, of course. Without a doubt, Castiel would rather return to his own estate where he could escape from the politics of court, and wile away his time in the pages of his books or out on his grounds, hunting with his dogs. As a bastard son of the former king with next to no chance of ever sitting on the throne, Castiel was normally able to get away with just that.

But an order from Michael was an order, not just from his half-brother, but from the King, and Castiel was nothing if not loyal to his family, King, and kingdom.

“You should get out there. The guests have started arriving and Michael will be looking for you.”

Gabriel blew a raspberry. “Who’s supposed to be coming to this thing anyway?”

“Everyone from our family except for Naomi, who stayed down south in Burnamar, taking over for Metatron while he’s here.”

“Ugh, Metatron’s here?” Gabriel kicked the cupboard with his heels. “I was hoping he’d stay in his own city where he can pretend that no one can boss him around.”

Castiel crossed his arms. “He arrived this morning, which you would have known if you had attended the family brunch.”

“Well, now that I know Metatron was there, I’m glad I didn’t,” said Gabriel, grinning cheekily. “And as for the rest, I already see enough of our brother, sister-in-law, and nephew as it is.”

“Michael wasn’t pleased,” Castiel scolded. “Anna wondered if you were sick and Samandriel wanted to ask you about the fireworks you promised him.”

Gabriel winced a little at that last comment.

“And I was there,” Castiel added.

A dismissive hand wave. “I visit you often enough too. To escape from the aforementioned.”

“Also, there were pancakes. With strawberry syrup, freshly made.”

That wrung a groan from Gabriel. “So cruel…”

Castiel shrugged nonchalantly. “Your loss.”

“Wait,” said Gabriel abruptly. “When you said ‘all our family’, does that mean…”

“Yes, Lucifer is coming. Along with some of his family, though I’m not sure which ones out of our niece and nephews. It is the sixtieth anniversary, and Lucifer hasn’t seen his granddaughter in at least four months.”

“Yes, Meg. She has been… a handful since she’s been here,” Gabriel grumbled. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, Lucy will realize he’s missed her so much that he’ll take her back with him when he leaves.”

Castiel snorted.

“Hey now, Lucifer is a temperamental bastard, but he’s always had a soft spot for his kids—particularly since Lilith… passed away—and I’m sure, if Meg’s spoiled attitude is any indication, he’s included her in that soft spot. We all know she didn’t get ‘spoiled brat syndrome’ from her father.”

“Meg’s not that bad,” Castiel argued. “I doubt she’ll want to leave at this point anyway. When I arrived here last week, the first thing she did was demand that I show her every bit of Grace manipulation I knew. I only managed free myself by promising her that I’d show her what I could after the celebration.”

Gabriel chuckled heartily. “Good luck, brother. You’ll need it, since you won’t be getting out of this one. She is the Crown Princess of Hellspyre. She outranks you.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” said Castiel stonily. “Though, you do realize that a crown princess also outranks a third-from-the-crown prince, right?

His brother waved a dismissive hand and then shuddered. “I really hope the entire Infernus brood doesn’t show up.”

“I doubt they all will. Someone has to stay over there to oversee things. Likely Azazel, since he is the King of Hellspyre, after all.”

“But that still leaves Ramiel, Dagon and Asmodeus. Not to mention if the Queen Consort herself decides to make the trip.”

“You’re worried about Abaddon coming now?”

“Of course! That woman is ruthless!”

A trumpet sounded from the ballroom, signalling the start of the announcement of titles.

“Get out there already,” Castiel insisted, giving Gabriel a shove off the counter. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Gabriel grumbled some more, but headed out nonetheless. Just before he went through the doorway, Castiel snatched the nearly empty wine bottle from his hand, causing Gabriel to give him a sour look.

He sighed. His normally upbeat and cheerful older brother had been increasingly melancholy these past few months. Ever since Samandriel had started dating Ambriel, it seemed. The best Castiel could figure was that seeing firsthand the two young men going through the motions of new love with their entire lives ahead of them was making the nearly fifty-year-old bachelor experience some longing of his own.

He truly hoped for Gabriel to find someone who would take away the sadness from his eyes and give his brother back his spark. Even though, thanks to Calistamar’s Grace and Mortaleigh’s Magick, the average lifespan across Liscalis was well into the three hundred range (as compared to the early hundred average elsewhere), approaching fifty was still pushing it. Though Castiel was one to talk, having just celebrated his fortieth birthday three days ago himself.

Brushing off the morose thoughts, Castiel re-focused on the kitchen. Everything appeared to be in order, so he exited the doors and entered the hallway beyond at a stately stroll.

Immediately, the incoherent babble of the partygoers and strains of soft instrumental music in the ballroom crowded into his ears.

Ignoring the servants’ door directly opposite the one leading back into the kitchen, Castiel turned left down the hall and made his way up a flight of stairs. Like Gabriel, he couldn’t just enter the ballroom unannounced like one of the common folk.

At the top of the stairs, a single hallway branched to the right, in the middle of which were two sets of double doors thrown wide. Castiel knew the hallway extended the entire length of the ballroom on the floor below, with a second set of concealed stairs on the other side.

On his side of the doors, his family waited. On the other side stood another group of people, in which Castiel was immediately able to pick out Lucifer—the only one wearing all-white among the otherwise red clothing, identifying Lucifer as a born Seraphon rather than a blood member of the Infernus family.

Castiel joined the closer group just as the herald began announcing Michael and Anna, saving him from any rebukes for being late or interrogations on the goings on of the celebration.

“His Majesty, King of Calistamar, Michael Seraphon and Her Majesty, Queen Consort of Calistamar, Anna Milton.”

As was custom, Anna had kept her family name after her marriage to Michael. Whenever he should pass away, she would still be the queen mother, but with no true power. All responsibility of rule would fall to their son, Samandriel.

“His Majesty, King Father of Hellspyre and Prince of Calistamar, Lucifer Seraphon.”

Lucifer walked through the doorway alone. Just as with Michael and Anna, applause sounded, though it was more subdued.

“His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of Calistamar, Samandriel Seraphon and Lord Ambriel Divinor of Calistamar.”

The loudest applause yet. The people already loved their young crown prince.

“Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess of Hellspyre, Megara Infernus.”

Meg, despite being Lucifer’s granddaughter, did not hold his family name, nor did her father, Azazael, or any of Lucifer’s other legitimate children. In the traditional style of the royal households, each child took the family name of the parent highest in rank. Thus, Azazel had taken the family name of his mother, the late Queen of Hellspyre, Lilith Infernus, from whom he had inherited the title of King upon her death. Meg, in turn, had taken her family name from him.

“His Royal Highness, Prince of Hellspyre, Asmodeus Infernus,” the herald continued.

“His Royal Highness, Prince of Calistamar, Gabriel Seraphon.”

“Her Royal Highness, Princess of Hellspyre, Dagon Infernus.”

As Dagon sauntered through the doors, no one remained on the other side. It seemed that Ramiel had also remained behind in Hellspyre.

“Lord Metatron Seraphon of Calistamar.”

Being half royal granted Metatron, Naomi, and himself the privilege of generally being treated as true members of the royal household (such as being announced after the royal family), yet they were not eligible for royal titles, hence the ‘Lord’ stylization.

“Lord Castiel Seraphon of Calistamar.”

Leaving the upper hallway empty, Castiel stepped past the herald and onto the balcony overlooking the crowded ballroom. He paused for a moment to allow the throngs of people to see him before making his way down the grand staircase with what he hoped was elegant movement.

He restrained himself from tugging at his dove gray suit.

The grand staircase was located at the far end of the rectangular ballroom, where Castiel now stood, with the main doors to the exterior courtyard opposite it. The expansive windows on that exterior wall granted Castiel a full view of the carriageway, still teeming with footmen, coachmen and late arrivals.

Castiel descended the remaining steps into a cloud of perfume, cologne, and tobacco smoke. Soon enough, the musky odor from multitudes of sweating bodies would join the cloying fragrances.

With the royal entrances complete, the herald returned to the front entranceway and continued to announce the guests as they entered, though with less pomp and circumstance than had been given to the two royal families in attendance.

Quickly, Castiel spied Gabriel, Michael, Anna, and Samandriel officially greeting Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Dagon, with Meg standing close by, a smug grin on her face. Glancing around some more, he observed that Metatron had managed to corner Lord Gadreel and Brigadier Balthazar and was happily talking their ears off.

With Balthazar occupied, Castiel decided to locate his only other close friend there. (Gabriel didn’t count since he was family.)

He found Lady Hannah amidst a cluster of women that included Lady Duma and Dowager Anael. Upon catching Castiel’s gaze, however, she broke away from the other women and made her way over to him.

After a formal greeting of a cheek kiss under the watch of the other attendees, Castiel thanked Hannah for coming.

“You know I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Castiel. I adore such parties. Great job on everything, by the way.” She waved a hand around her. The exquisite decorations of spun glass cast sparkles of light on everything. The layout of the tables, dance floor and areas to mingle made an easy flow from one to the next. The full orchestra set up by the staircase was playing subtle yet hauntingly beautiful notes. And the first of the miniature appetizers were being laid out alongside sparkling champagne, burgundy wines, and various other liquors and spirits.

“I really didn’t have much to do with it,” Castiel admitted. “I essentially just oversaw Gabriel’s plans coming to fruition. As I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you, all the groundwork and legwork had pretty much already been done by the time I took over.”

Hannah smiled warmly. “Even still, you did have a hand in it, no matter how small.”

As if speaking of him had made him appear, their eyes were drawn to quick motions off to the side of the ballroom.

Asmodeus and Gabriel were speaking, though it seemed like the conversation had soured. Gabriel was visibly agitated, making rapid, jerky motions with his hands as he spoke. Although they couldn’t hear what was being said from their position, they could see the people nearest the pair either staring or looking away awkwardly.

Castiel frowned. “I should go see what that’s about.”

Hannah nodded, equally concerned.

Before he could take a step, however, the herald, in a loud, clear voice, announced, “Lord Robert Singer of Mortaleigh and Major General Ellen Harvelle of Mortaleigh.”

The Advisor to the King of Mortaleigh was getting on in his years, but he still looked sturdy and tough enough to visibly intimidate many of the nearby Calistamar nobles who hadn’t worked a day of hard labour in their lives. This man had experienced the Blight War first hand and survived.

The Major General, who had entered on his arm like a lady and was dressed like a lady, was despite those facts, obviously just as much a warrior as Lord Robert had been in his prime.

Castiel had met the Lord Robert on a few occasions when he had been a child, during the Peace Treaty negotiations, subsequent amendments, and renewals. But his most recent and clearest memory was of the man sedately drinking his whiskey as he entered Summit Hall in Calistamar’s palace to renew the Peace Treaty at its twentieth anniversary, which had been nineteen years ago.

Lord Robert had arrived late, which was the only reason Castiel had seen him back then. Castiel had gotten delayed in route and had missed the arrival of the King of Mortaleigh and the other dignitaries taking part in the talks, who had all arrived on time. Then an emergency had called Castiel back to his estate, and he had missed the Mortaleigh contingent’s departure.

Since the tenth and thirtieth anniversary renewals had been hosted by Mortaleigh, and Castiel, naturally, hadn’t been invited as a bastard son, he was the only one of his family to have never met the King since he had started his reign, albeit under a regent, when Castiel was four years old.

And it seemed that would remain unchanged tonight.

Though he would get his chance again next year when Calistamar hosted once more.

Hannah pulled his attention away from the two delegates by saying, “Maybe the King will agree to send you to Mortaleigh as an envoy some time instead of General Naomi.” She had obviously read his disappointment on his face.

She continued, “Or perhaps Lord Metatron will finally retire and you can take his spot assisting with all the affairs of state, or whatever it is that he does.”

Castiel couldn’t help making a face in response to that, causing Hannah to laugh.

“Metatron’s only seven years older than me. You know that right?”

Hannah grinned mischievously. “Ah, but it feels like he’s been around for so much longer.”

Castiel chuckled, then grew serious. “My mind knows that the King of Mortaleigh never attends Calistamar’s larger decennial founding anniversary celebrations, just as Michael never attends those of Mortaleigh, but I still manage to get my hopes up every time,” Castiel admitted.

Hannah nodded in agreement. “I’d love to meet him too. The entire Campbell royal family are legendary warriors and hunters, and the King is supposedly one of the best.”

Castiel rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Hannah fanned herself with her hand.

And yet, he couldn’t stop imagining a tall, heavily muscled man with bold, rugged features. Just like his two delegates, he would be rough and tough, yet still beloved by his people, if the stories were correct.

The total sum of what he could recall from the day of the King’s coronation so many years ago was a freckled, brown-haired boy with green eyes.

Just as he was really getting lost in his thoughts, Hannah tapped Castiel on the arm.

“Michael’s looking our way,” she said.

Castiel’s gaze scanned the crowd until he spotted Michael indeed staring pointedly at him from where he stood amongst a gaggle of high-ranking nobles.

Subtly, yet with a clear message, Michael signalled for Castiel to go greet the newcomers and welcome them to the celebration.

He sighed. Obviously his older half-brother was not willing to degrade himself by personally greeting a lowly Advisor and his military escort. Although, Castiel had thought that was what Gabriel was supposed to be there for.

Where was his other brother anyway? A quick check told him that Gabriel was no longer where Castiel had last seen him arguing with Asmodeus, and he also couldn’t see him in the crowd, though that didn’t say much considering how many people there were.

Resigned to his role, and yet still somewhat excited to speak with people from another kingdom, Castiel excused himself from Hannah and headed over.

Lord Robert noticed him coming and turned to face Castiel when he drew close.

Castiel extended his hand. “Thank you very much for coming all this way for our anniversary, my Lord. And you as well, Major General.”

“It is our pleasure,” Lord Robert said, his voice gruff yet unfailingly polite.

“The party is marvelous,” Maj.-Gen. Ellen added, her voice nearly as gruff as Lord Robert’s. “And Calistamar is beautiful, as always.”

Castiel nodded his thanks.

Lord Robert cleared his throat. “The King sends his regards, of course. He is otherwise occupied, and thus, unfortunately unable to attend.”

“Of course,” Castiel conceded. “I hope you both enjoy the celebration. There is plenty of food and entertainment to go around, but if you need anything else, please do not hesitate to seek me out. Any of our staff would also be pleased to assist you with anything you need.”

Maj.-Gen. Ellen and Lord Robert both thanked him and then all three of them stood awkwardly for a few moments.

Castiel shifted from one foot to the other. Just as he was about to excuse himself, Maj.-Gen. Ellen nudged Lord Robert.

“Didn’t you want to ask about that book?” she asked her companion.

Lord Robert seemed to brighten a bit and his back straightened slightly. “Yes, of course.” He gaze turned to Castiel. “I’ve heard you have one of the best libraries in Calistamar. That you’ve amassed quite the collection, enough to rival the libraries in the royal palaces.”

Surprised, Castiel blinked. “Um, yes. Or I like to think so anyway. I like… books.” He winced.

But Lord Robert didn’t seem to notice Castiel’s lack of eloquence. He forged full steam ahead. “I’ve been searching for a rare book for a number of years now—the _Aliena Incantamentum Liber_—and I’ve heard rumour that it might currently be located in your library.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, yet his formally stiff muscles relaxed at the familiar topic. “As a matter of fact, it is. Are you just looking to read it, or is it something you are hoping to possess for yourself?”

Lord Robert grinned widely and clapped his hands together, while Maj.-Gen. Ellen rolled her eyes at his enthusiasm. “I’d love to take it off your hands if you’re willing to barter for it.”

Castiel considered for a moment, then said, “There is one book in particular that I’ve had my eye on for some time as well. It’s a history of the Blight War written by Carver Edlund. It’s supposed to be one of the most complete and unbiased accounts of the War, and I’ve been told it resides in Mortaleigh’s royal library.”

Lord Robert scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll have to check with the Prince to see if we can make that trade, but I think he’ll see the value in it.”

“Not the King?” Castiel tilted his head in question.

“The King?” Lord Robert guffawed heartily. “No, the Prince is the one who looks after the library. And we’re all thankful for that. Not sure the King could find the library even if he wanted to.”

Castiel’s interest was peaked and his mental image of an almost Neanderthal-like king solidified even more. How the King of Mortaleigh had managed to rule and be so successful at it all these years, Castiel had no idea.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Michael and Anna, who had apparently deemed it long enough before coming to greet their foreign guests.

Introductions were made by Castiel and the greetings were done quickly. After the formalities, Lord Robert requested a private audience with Michael later on in the evening.

“Acting as the voice of my King, there are a few important matters that should be discussed,” the Advisor stated as his reason for the meeting.

Castiel stiffened at Lord Robert’s bold request.

But Michael nodded benignly, saying, “Yes, of course. But there will be plenty of time to discuss business tomorrow—I assume you will be staying in Granamar overnight—once everyone has slept off their overindulgences. Tonight is for celebrating. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

Even after hearing the dismissal, Lord Robert was still reluctant to leave, but Maj.-Gen. Ellen took his arm and led him away.

Castiel was surprised at Lord Robert’s somewhat improper request from an advisor to a king other than his own, which Castiel hadn’t thought the old Advisor capable of. He wondered what had truly prompted such a request.

But he was even more surprised at Michael’s seemingly lighthearted response to it. Castiel had expected fire and brimstone to start reigning down.

Lord Robert must have had a very good reason for requesting the private audience, and yet Michael appeared completely unconcerned about the ‘important matters.’ Apparently his brother was not letting anything get in the way of this celebration going off without a hitch.

Castiel started to move away, intending to head back to Hannah, when a firm hand grasped his shoulder.

“Wait, Castiel,” Michael said. “I need you to check that the feast is ready and then to round up our errant family for my pre-feast speech.”

Castiel slumped. “Alright, Michael.”

His brother frowned and his grip tightened.

Castiel ground his teeth. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Michael nodded his approval and released Castiel’s shoulder. He rolled it as he meandered over to the kitchen, taking his time.

He spoke with the head chef as the man rushed to and fro, confirming that everything was in order, and then headed back into the ballroom, through the servant’s entrance this time.

Determined to find Gabriel, he started scouring the ballroom, to no avail. In fact, he couldn’t seem to find Metatron or Samandriel either. All three of them seemed to have disappeared from the celebration.

All the servants Castiel sent searching for them in all the usual places turned up nothing.

Bracing himself, Castiel realized he had no choice but to inform Michael.

Standing behind the center chair of the long table at the front of the ballroom, the place of highest honor, Michael seethed.

“_Find them,_” he hissed. “I have to proceed with my speech now, but if they aren’t located by the time I’m done…”

Castiel didn’t need Michael to finish his threat. He hurried off.

Castiel spotted Balthazar not too far from the table and signalled for him. They met just below the low dais the table rested upon.

“Where are your guards posted?” Castiel questioned the Brigadier. Balthazar was responsible for palace security, so if anyone had seen where Gabriel, Metatron and Samandriel had gotten to, it would be his men.

“One at every entryway, five patrolling the interior halls, twenty keeping order in the exterior courtyard, and fifteen manning the palace borders,” Balthazar answered promptly and succinctly. “Do you need to know about those beyond the palace?”

“Not right now,” Castiel said. “Can you question your men discretely while they remain at their posts?”

Balthazar gave him an odd look, but nodded.

“Good, start with the guards posted at the entryways. Ask them if they have recently seen Prince Gabriel, Lord Metatron, or Crown Prince Samandriel.”

Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure they’re fine, but we’re trying to locate them. Just… keep it quiet for now.”

A tense half an hour later, Michael had finished his speech and Balthazar had returned, grim-faced.

“Nobody’s seen anything, or at least nothing they’re admitting to. But if I question them any further, people will start to realize that something’s up.”

Castiel cursed. “Question the rest of the guards and expand the search past the palace borders,” he instructed.

“Hm… Well, I can certainly do that, but before I do, there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

Balthazar hesitated and then sighed. “Earlier I received word that a band of knights were spotted sneaking into Granamar,” he admitted. A chill stole down Castiel’s spine. “They weren’t wearing any sigils, but the report was that they had the appearance of Mortaleigh knights. I sent men to turn them around and send them on their way, but those men just left not too long ago so I haven’t heard back from them yet.”

“Send more men to bring those knights in for questioning,” Castiel said. “Now.”

Then he spun around, striding away rapidly, simultaneously calling over his shoulder, “And have my horse saddled and bridled.”

Castiel was going hunting.

Despite the method by which they had entered Calistamar’s capital, the large contingent of armed riders that descended on their little group of six was still a surprise to Dean. Within seconds, he and the five knights he was travelling with were completely surrounded by men wielding swords, lances, and bright white magic in their hands, lighting up the busy main street of Granamar that they had been casually strolling along.

The shining silver armour and blue doves emblazoned on their shields clearly identified the mounted men and women as members of the Calistamar Garrison. A piece of royal blue fabric wound around each of their right arms, signifying that this was the City Guard, a contingent of the Garrison tasked with the protection of the capital.

Earlier that night, Dean and his companions had stabled their own horses outside the city walls, and so had been on foot, in the middle of the street, in plain sight, and doing absolutely nothing to warrant the actions of the Calistamar Garrison. Dean’s feet were cold and all he wanted was to reach his destination.

There were only two reasons why they, in particular, were being accosted. One, they had been seen scaling the city wall and were about to be detained for entering Granamar without being cleared by the guards at the gate. Or two, they had been identified as being from Mortaleigh and were about to be subjected to all the animosity that still ran deep between the two kingdoms.

It could also be both, Dean admitted to himself.

None of those cases, however, called for fifty soldiers to apprehend a group of six. Talk about overkill.

Neither Dean nor his companions made a move to resist whatever was about to happen. They were waiting for the soldiers to reveal their intentions.

Six of the leading riders dismounted—one for him and each of the knights at his side. Even then, none of his group drew their weapons.

“Well, this looks like it’s gonna be a pain in the keister,” one of the knights groused. Her clearly female voice caused the soldiers to hesitate. Dean smirked at the looks on all their faces as they realized that his merry band consisted solely of women (except for himself, of course)—the rogue band known as the Wayward Sisters, to be exact.

“Probably will be,” Dean responded to Donna.

As the men drew nearer, boots crunching in the thin layer of snow, he noted that all the soldiers appeared to be of equal rank. Apparently, the one in charge had not yet arrived and they were all simply acting on orders.

_Great,_ Dean thought to himself. _That makes this so much harder._

Dean raised his hands. “Hi there, friends. We’re just here to enjoy the celebration. We mean no harm to Calistamar or its people.” A pause. “We come in peace,” he added with a cheeky grin.

One of the City Guardsmen who had dismounted spoke up. “We have orders to arrest you, so that’s what we’re going to do. You can’t talk your way out of this. Don’t try to resist.”

Dean sighed. It was exactly as he feared. These soldiers weren’t about to abandon their orders even if he explained everything. His only hope was to speak with someone in charge who had the authority to order them to stand down, though that came with perils of its own.

“Where is your commanding officer?” he asked.

The vocal guard snorted. “That’s who we’ll be taking you to. So just come with us quietly and you guys can have a nice chat.”

Escorted to the palace under armed guard? Well, that just wasn’t going to work for Dean. Unfortunately, he was just realizing now that his plan may not have been as well thought out as he had thought it was.

Oh well… Live and learn.

Dean, hands still raised, took a step toward the side of the street, saying “I’d really rather not, but thanks for the offer. How about you go grab them, and we’ll just wait for you in that toasty-looking bar over there. I’ll even buy them a round.”

He took another step, which was a step too far for the talkative guard.

The soldier moved to grab him.

Before he could lay a hand on him, however, Jody, the most senior knight of the group, had slapped the man’s hand away with the flat of her blade.

Dean chuckled and started to lift his hand away from the hilt of his own blade, where he’d had it ready to draw and strike, when the soldier bellowed in anger.

Evidently furious, the man retaliated by swinging his broadsword quickly at Jody’s face.

Dean parried the blade, but the exchange of blows already had the other guards drawing their own weapons. Soon enough, a full-scale fight was waging in the street.

At first, the six of them easily had the upper hand against the six dismounted soldiers, but that changed once the rest of the soldiers moved forward on their mounts to join the fray.

Being quite outnumbered, on foot, with fewer weapons and in unfamiliar terrain, Dean and the knights were subdued embarrassingly quickly. He had taken down at least five of the guards himself, but that was a small comfort as he was forced into a kneeling position by two soldiers, who were on the beefier side of the body-shape spectrum.

The talkative soldier wiped blood from his mouth. His left eye was swollen shut and right arm hung limply. He was scowling, clenching and unclenching his left fist as if he wanted to keep punching Dean over and over again.

Dean grinned up at him. “Hey, you started it.”

“You mouthy little asshole,” the soldier sneered. “Your momma won’t have anything to bury when I’m done with you.”

The punch came a second after that, catching Dean off guard with its ferocity. Obviously something about him pressed on all of the man’s buttons, though Dean had no idea what that could be.

Dean’s teeth cut into his lip from the force, causing his mouth to fill with blood. He had to spit it out on the ground, grimacing. The two other solders still had him in a vise-like grip so he was unable to retaliate if this guy wanted to wale on him for the rest of the night.

But he needn’t have been concerned, because Claire, furious and letting her rage take hold of her, managed to get loose from the soldier holding her, throat punch him, and rush at the soldier standing over Dean, who was gearing up for another blow.

She really needed to keep her temper in check.

Claire knocked the guy down, grabbed his sword, and raised it to strike. His own guards had loosened their grips, allowing Dean to break free, rush to his feet and swiftly grab her wrist, stopping what would have been a fatal blow. Her eyes shot to him, pupils blown wide with anger and fear.

Dean’s heart and grip softened.

Then he was practically knocked off his feet by the would-have-been-dead-if-not-for-him soldier as the man shoved him aside in an effort to grab hold of Claire, obviously intending to turn his rage on her. He succeeded in grabbing her, but didn’t have a chance to cause any damage because Dean recovered, pried Claire away from him and stepped between them.

He signaled for Claire to back off, and after a second, she did. Two more soldiers promptly took hold of each of her arms. She began to struggle again, but Dean shook his head and she stopped, a defeated expression taking over her face.

Dean ached a little from that, but turned back to the larger issue.

“Hey!” he shouted, drawing the man’s attention away from Claire where it was still focused. “I’m the one you want to beat to a bloody pulp. Come and get me.”

The soldier refocused on Dean and grinned. He signaled for Dean’s guards to take hold of him once more, then he took Dean up on his offer.

After the first few blows, Dean could see the horror dawning on the faces of the Wayward Sisters as they were forced to watch.

His world started to fade to black. From pain, blows to his head, blood loss, or simply swollen eyes, Dean couldn’t tell.

That was when new riders appeared in his graying vision. One on a dun-coloured hourse stood out the most. He was dressed in a formal, gray suit, looking quite dapper. His chocolate brown hair was just long enough to be tousled from a fast ride… on horseback. A serious brow matched his current expression perfectly.

Behind the rider, the night sky suddenly sparkled with multi-coloured pinpricks of light exploding across the black expanse.

Dean saw the man leap gracefully from his horse, a frown crossing his face as he yelled something at the men. Then it all faded as darkness took him.

Dean regained consciousness with the smell of rot in his nose and shivering limbs. His eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly, immediately regretting the action as pain rampaged through his torso.

He took a moment to breathe through it, and then scanned his surroundings.

Beneath him was a lumpy, damp straw mat. Dean had a suspicion that was where the rotting smell was coming from as well. Not wanting to sit on that thing any longer than absolutely necessary, Dean braced himself and stood, wincing all the same.

The floor beyond the foul pallet was rough stone, as were three of the walls. The fourth was made of iron bars. Evidently, he was in a dungeon.

In the corner of the cell was a rusty pail, which Dean didn’t even want to contemplate, and the only light source by which he could see all this was a torch affixed to the wall of the hallway outside his cell.

As he was scouting the hallway, a shadow moved, stepping into view. It was the graceful man from before, whose face was perfectly neutral right at that moment, not betraying an ounce of emotion.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other and licked his lip, tasting the dried blood from where it had split. He ran a hand down his face, evaluating.

In addition to his ribs, which were most likely bruised or broken, he could feel a cut by his left eyebrow and the area around his left eye was swollen. He also ached all over, but at least he still had all his teeth. So, bonus.

On the other hand, his leather jacket, sword, hidden knife, and chain he had worn around his neck were all missing. All he had left were his shirt, pants, and riding boots, which he was surprised they hadn’t taken as well.

“Who are you?” the handsome man demanded.

Dean looked him firmly in the eyes and said, “Sir Dean Winchester of House Winchester, second cousin to the King. And I demand that you release me at once, along with the other knights I was travelling with if they are still being detained as well.”

“Where are they?”

Dean scowled. “The knights? How on earth should I know? In case you didn’t notice, I’ve been unconscious since _your_ men decided to vent their frustrations on me.”

He thought he saw the other man frown slightly, but if he did, it was quickly wiped away.

Just then a door opened down the hall, out of Dean’s sight. A ray of daylight managed to sneak into the gloomy dungeon for a second before the door closed behind whoever had entered.

The sight of daylight had Dean’s heart beating faster. He had lost the entire night and who knew how long of this day to unconsciousness.

A tall, suave-looking man with sandy-blond hair and stubble on his upper lip and chin, strode toward his jailer, who also moved and met the man a distance from Dean’s cell. They conferred briefly in low whispers that Dean couldn’t make out.

The news didn’t appear to be good since his jailer’s face hardened even more and his shoulders drooped slightly. The sight had a desire to massage the tension out of those shoulder rising in Dean. He shook it off.

While Sandy stood by, Chocolate marched resolutely back over to Dean’s cell and stood stiffly before him.

“In the name of his Majesty, King Michael Seraphon of Calistamar, I, Lord Castiel Seraphon of House Seraphon, formally charge you, Sir Dean Winchester of House Winchester, with the crimes of kidnapping and oath-breaking. Should you be found guilty of these crimes, the punishment is death. What do you say to these charges?”

And for the first time in his life, Dean was stunned into speechlessness.


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Dean paced, ignoring the pain the movement sparked in his chest.

Back and forth. Back and forth. His feet almost slid out from under him on the damp stone whenever he turned.

At least the pacing warmed his muscles, even though they too screamed at him to stop.

He was alone in the dungeon now and was trying to figure a way out of this mess, which was precisely what was making him restless. He had gotten himself there, so he had damn well better find a way out.

He thought back to Lord Castiel Seraphon’s declaration and the discussion that had transpired afterward.

After Dean had been struck speechless, the handsome man—Castiel—had repeated himself, giving life to Dean’s vocal chords.

“I didn’t kidnap anyone. I’m innocent,” he declared. “Well, okay. Maybe not exactly innocent, but I’m not guilty of this,” he amended.

Unimpressed, Castiel’s lips tightened.

A low, frustrated growl escaped Dean. “Who did I supposedly kidnap? What oath did I break? When exactly did this alleged kidnapping take place? Because the Wayward Sisters and I only just arrived in Granamar half an hour before your men abused us.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “First of all, you and your companions snuck into this city without permission, so the Garrison had every right to detain you.” Those blue eyes softened slightly. “Yes, they may have gone a bit… overboard.” Dean snorted. “But until we know whether or not you had anything to do with the disappearances, it is unclear if their use of extreme force was justified or not.

Blue frosted over. “Second, you don’t get to ask the questions here.”

Dean harrumphed, but waved a hand. “Fine, go ahead. Ask your questions.”

Castiel shifted and cleared his throat. _Hmm…_ Despite the tough words and hard stare, someone clearly wasn’t used to interrogating a prisoner.

“Can anyone, besides your own companions, vouch for where you were before and after entering Granamar?”

“A stablehand at one of the stables just outside the city walls saw us when we boarded our horses there, but it was crazy busy because of the party and all, so I have no idea if he’ll even remember us. As for afterward, there were plenty of people in the streets, but again, I doubt anyone was paying us any particular attention besides your own soldiers.”

Castiel nodded like that was what he had expected. The tendons in Dean’s neck twitched.

“Who helped you get them away from the celebration and out of the city? We scoured all of Granamar and have found no trace of them.”

Dean couldn’t help the scowl that spread across his face. “Alright, that’s it. Who the hell is _them_? Multiple people were kidnapped? Because I’m telling you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His hands were clenched into fists and Dean had to forcibly slow his breathing to calm down and unclench them. If he let anger and frustration take over him now, he’d just have more shit to deal with in the end.

His gaze rested on Castiel once more, and he was surprised to see that the man actually seemed to be considering Dean’s words (and probably his tone too). Other things he noticed were the lines of tension bracketing the other man’s mouth and eyes, and the dark circles under those eyes that spoke of a long, sleepless night.

His anger dissipated somewhat.

After long moments, Castiel’s eyes met his gaze and he spoke. “Crown Prince Samandriel Seraphon, Prince Gabriel Seraphon, and Lord Metatron Seraphon disappeared from the anniversary celebration last night, right in the midst of the crowds. None of them have been heard from since. We fear the worst.”

_Woah…_ A rush of cold moved down Dean’s spine. _I’m in some serious shit._ What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Castiel wasn’t done speaking, however. “While Prince Gabriel has been known to venture off on his own from time to time without notice, this is extremely unusual for Metatron, who was due at a meeting regarding state affairs this morning. He never misses those.”

“Really? He likes those snooze-fests?”

Castiel shot him a curious look.

“Alright, alright.” Dean mimed zipping his lips shut, purposefully misinterpreting Castiel’s glance.

“The King is furious and the Queen is sick with worry about her son being missing.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and when he opened them again, the frost was gone. “If you had anything to do with this, return them. Or if you have any idea where they might be, help us. Help us bring Sam, Gabe and Metatron home where they belong, please.”

Dean’s heart wrenched in his chest. _Sam…_ The name reminded him of his brother.

He moved closer to the bars barricading his cell, reaching up to grip them. Castiel stood his ground, not backing away.

“I’m sorry. I truly am,” Dean said softly. “If I could help you bring your family home, I would. In a heartbeat. But I really don’t know anything. Like I said, the knights and I just came here for the celebration and we didn’t even make it remotely close to the palace. I’m sorry.”

Castiel’s next exhale shuddered a bit as it left him, and a haunted look clouded those blue eyes.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, his steps stiff, the gracefulness from before a distant memory. The sandy-haired man, who had remained silent, followed him.

He heard the door to the dungeon open with a groan.

“Provide the prisoner with a fresh bucket, clean water, and some bread.” Castiel’s voice drifted back to his cell. He must have been talking to the other man or a guard stationed outside.

Then the door shut and Dean was alone.

And so he paced.

That had been almost two hours ago and counting, and Dean’s stomach was now gnawing at his insides like a caged beast.

A groan from down the hallway. Someone was entering the dungeon.

“Don’t let him take too long,” he heard a deep voice saying. The guard?

A familiar female voice responded cheerfully. “Don’t worry. Lord Castiel asked me to come straight back afterward to report on the state of the prisoner. So no dallying for me.”

The door groaned closed without a reply from the guard.

Dean was grinning from ear to ear as a petite red-head swept into view.

“Hey there, Charlie. What brings you out here?”

Charlie’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of him, gaze scanning him from head to toe. “Damn, Dean. You look like shit.”

Dean choked off a burst of laughter that would have had his ribs trying to murder him. “I feel like shit.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and handed over the jug of water and small loaf of bread she was carrying through the cell’s pass-through. The bucket hooked on her arm, she placed on the floor beside her.

“I almost didn’t believe the rumours when I heard that the royal family of Calistamar had a man named Dean Winchester locked in their dungeon.”

Dean raised his hands to either side of him. “Well, here I am.”

“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

Only a few people could get away with speaking to Dean like that. Charlie was one of them. Dean pouted. “I’ve had better ideas…”

“That’s for sure. I’ve been trying to get in to see if it was really you all night.”

“I only woke up a short while ago,” Dean said, shrugging.

“I did warn you about this scheme of yours when you first told me what you wanted to do.”

“I know.”

“Did you even run it by Sam or Bobby first, like I told you?”

“No…”

“Idiot.”

“I got that, thanks. It was supposed to be… a surprise. Of sorts.”

That had Charlie laughing while Dean huffed. “Eat your bread,” she ordered.

He ripped off a chunk of the loaf and stuffed it in his mouth. Charlie pulled out a set of lock picks and set to work on the lock of the cell door.

Using the water the force down the tough bread, he was finished all too soon. His stomach had stopped grumbling at least through.

“So what the hell happened at the palace last night? Three royals went missing? How the hell does that even happen?’

“No idea about where the two princes and the other guy are. All I know is what my inside man told me and the rumours I heard.”

“The guy I was supposed to meet?”

“That’d be the one. Let me start from the beginning.” She spoke as she worked her picks. “So I had been flirting with this super-hot lady-farmer from the country. She was visiting the city for the anniversary. Probably gone back by now.” Charlie made a sad face at him. “Anyway, my inside man from the palace suddenly showed up in the bar, interrupting us. He tells me that you never showed where you were supposed to meet. Then he tells me about all this commotion about missing princes and that the Garrison was on the move everywhere.

“So at this point, I’m already thinking ‘Shit, this isn’t good.’ My man says he waited as long as he dared, but eventually had been forced to leave because of the increasingly suspicious Garrison soldiers, who by that point had started interrogating all the palace staff members. So he got the hell out of there, probably blowing his cover.”

Dean slumped against the stone wall of the cell. “Sorry.”

Charlie shrugged it off. “By the time he had gotten to me and I had made my way to the palace, the chaos had died down somewhat. So I was able to sneak in without any hassle. You were already in the dungeon and the Wayward Sisters were already confined on the upper floors, but I was at least able to get the full story.”

The dungeon door opened and the guard called out, “You done yet? What’s taking so long?”

“Slow drinker,” Charlie called back. “Got to wait until he’s done so I can take the jug back to the kitchens.”

A grunt, then the door closed again.

“And?” Dean prompted.

“And it’s exactly what you heard. The Crown Prince Samandriel Seraphon, Prince Gabriel Seraphon, and Lord Metatron Seraphon are all missing. And you’ve been accused of kidnapping them and thus breaking the Peace Treaty between Mortaleigh and Calistamar.”

Dean sucked in a breath.

Charlie continued solemnly. “If this isn’t resolved soon, it could mean war.”

“But why me and the knights? What proof do they have?”

Charlie sighed. “You were seen sneaking into the city and you’re obviously from Mortaleigh. That’s justification enough for Calistamar to hold you until they can find solid proof of your guilt, or find the true culprit—if there is one and they didn’t just run off—or negotiate with the King of Mortaleigh for your release.”

“Negotiate with…” Dean trailed off.

“Yup. So, since the King is currently here, in a dungeon, you’re fucked.”

“Shit.”

“I told you it was a stupid plan. A King in disguise sneaking into a foreign kingdom—one with which his own kingdom has a history of war? Did you really think nothing would go wrong?”

“So… What’s the punishment for that exactly?”

Charlie snorted. “You think revealing yourself now will solve everything?”

“Maybe? It’s an option.”

“Not a very good one. The Calistamar king has his arch enemy at his mercy right now, whether he knows it or not.”

“We’re not at war anymore.”

“True, but if he finds out who you are, he’s not going to just let you stroll off back to Mortaleigh. You snuck into his kingdom, Dean. Right into his own backyard. He’s not going to forgive that lightly. You’ve met King Michael. You know.”

Dean winced as he imagined Michael’s reaction. Likely rage shifting into maniacal glee when he realized the power he suddenly had over Dean.

“At best, it would become an international incident, not to mention extremely embarrassing for me. At worst, another war,” Dean admitted. “And potentially fatal for me.”

Charlie nodded. “Your only option is to escape and make it back to Mortaleigh without being caught again. Which is exactly why I’m here, risking my own neck.” She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Dean smiled, despite the situation. “What’s the plan to get the Wayward Sisters out?”

“I used a sleeping draught to poison the guards outside the rooms where they’re being held before I came down here. It should be taking effect any minute now, so once you’re free, I’m going to go unlock the doors for them with the knocked-out guards’ keys while you make your escape once I’m gone.”

Dean nodded his approval.

“This way, everyone will get away and it will be tougher to implicate me in the escape. So hopefully I will be able to keep my own cover intact and keep working as your spy here.”

“I should go with you to release the women.”

“No,” Charlie said, shaking her head. “You are much more likely to be recognized and re-captured than me—either as a prisoner or as the King of Mortaleigh. You could screw up the entire plan if you come with me. I’m amazed you haven’t been recognized already.”

He shrugged. “I’ve only been here a few times, most of those quite some time ago. And the people who have seen me recently are the least likely to involve themselves with a lowly prisoner. They have people for that. But fine, we’ll follow your plan,” he said grudgingly.

“Smart choice.”

“Have you gotten that door open yet? I thought you’d be faster at lock picking, considering your profession.”

Charlie grinned smugly, stepped back, and let the cell door swing open. “Oh, I had that unlocked in less than a minute. I just wanted to prolong the pleasure of seeing King Dean Campbell, of all people, behind bars.”

Dean scowled, but it was half-heartedly. “You can be a she-devil sometimes, you know that?”

“And that’s why I’m your favourite spy.”

Dean laughed. He made a move to exit the cell, but Charlie swung the bars back in place again, though without locking them.

“We need to keep up the appearance for the guard that you’re still perfectly locked up until I’m long gone,” she explained.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled. He took hold of the door to keep it in place so it wouldn’t accidently swing open.

Charlie poked him in the chest through the bars. “Listen closely. Once you’ve gone up the steps from the dungeon, go left. Follow the hallway until you come to a painting of an angel brandishing a spear, then go through the door to the right of the painting. You’ll be in the servant’s hallway. Continue down it until you reach the second door on the left, which will take you out into a small, seldom-used courtyard on the western side of the palace.”

“Er…”

“If you can make it from there out to the street, go to the _Women in White_ brothel and ask for Constance—she’ll get you out of the city.”

“Could you—”

Charlie snatched the empty jug from his hand. “Be quick about it,” she warned. Then she was sauntering back down the dungeon hallway.

“Charlie!” he hissed.

The dungeon door groaned, and Dean heard her bidding farewell to the guard before it closed behind her.

Dean huffed, working to memorize her rapid instructions before he completely forgot them.

He waited for an anxious five minutes before letting the cell door swing open again. He couldn’t help but be grateful that even though the dungeon was dank and cold, it appeared to be kept in decent working condition, so the hinges were well-oiled and silent, unlike those on the door to the dungeon itself.

Dean slipped out of his cell and moved quietly down the narrow dungeon hallway, past the other cells lining one side. As he did so, he kept an eye out for anything that could help him—the only things he could see though were more buckets acting as chamber pots and pallets just like his. The torches on the wall were securely bolted.

At the door to the dungeon, Dean paused, taking hold of the handle. He took a steadying breath, then swung the door open, saying “hey” at the same time.

The guard, caught by surprise, spun around quickly, but at the precise moment the guard faced him, Dean punched him with a Magick-enhanced hook to the chin, knocking him out cold before he could make a sound. He caught the guard’s body as it slumped.

The sudden movement from the punch and then the additional weight of the guard’s body had his ribs protesting fiercely. At least they only seemed bruised rather than broken. Had it been the latter, Dean would have been in much more pain than he was right then.

He wished he had more Magick to use on managing the pain, but he had only recovered a little since the climb and fight the day before and had to use it sparingly.

After dragging the guard into the dungeon, he used the guard’s keys to lock him in the first cell, pocketing the keys afterward.

The guard’s uniform was briefly considered, but the other man was young and skinny, so Dean doubted that his clothes would even remotely fit his sturdier frame.

He did, however, take the guard’s sword, even though it was obviously not well taken care of, having a dull edge and being slightly off balance.

From the dungeon landing, Dean (slowly) climbed a steep staircase to what he guessed must be the ground level. The stairs exited into another hallway, this one with a solid timber floor and walls made out of lath and plaster. On the ceiling, ornamental plasterwork provided an extra level of refinement and master works of art hung every few feet on the walls.

It was an impressive hallway, likely designed to intimidate prisoners on their way to the dungeon or remind the residents of their power over those just below their feet.

As he cautiously walked down the thankfully empty hallway, unable to direct his attention elsewhere since he had to watch for the painting with the angel, Dean couldn’t help but notice the subject matter of every painting he passed.

After only a few paintings, he was forced to come to the realization that each and every one was a painting of the War between Calistamar and Mortaleigh. Graphic scenes of death, disease, famine, and war etched themselves into his mind, making his stomach churn. He winced repeatedly as he was assaulted on all sides by gory image after gory image.

He easily recalled the stories his father had told him of the War—stories involving orphaned children, entire families starving to death, men and women dying brutally—and he remembered what the trauma of seeing all of that had done to his father. But never had he been exposed to the horrors of the War like this, staring him right in the face.

_Never again,_ he swore to himself right then and there.

Finally the painting with the angel appeared ahead of him. On it, an armed, golden angel was using his spear to deliver a blow of pure white light from the heavens, aimed toward two painted figures standing on a drawbridge that Dean immediately recognized as the entrance to the Mortaleigh stronghold and capital, Ashbourne. The two figures, a man and a woman, were wearing crowns.

Dean froze in place as a cold fury rose inside him. He knew exactly what that painting was trying to convey—the assassination of his grandparents, King Samuel Campbell and Queen Consort Deanna Garron. The angel was obviously meant to represent the hand that Calistamar, with its angel and dove crest, had had in the plot. The assassin himself, however, was painted off in a corner of the piece, disguised in all black with eyes as golden as the angel’s halo.

He ripped his gaze away from the painting, his previous sympathy for the plight of both nations during the War frozen over by his icy anger.

_How _dare_ they paint that heartless attack and hang it on their walls as if it were something to be proud of._

Pain forgotten, Dean wrenched open the servant’s door, which looked exactly the same as every other door he had passed, and stormed through with little heed that there might be someone on the other side.

Luckily, there wasn’t anyone there, and he was able to march on unimpeded to the second door on the left.

This time, he paused, shaking himself to get rid of some of his fury and concentrate.

He opened the exterior door with caution this time and glanced out, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the daylight, though it luckily wasn’t too bright at that moment. His eyes had just grown accustomed to the dim lighting in the dungeon so anything brighter than that stung.

Seeing no one, he slipped silently out into a still lush, green garden despite the winter season. He could see many plants hibernating, but there were also winter blooming plants spread throughout. Someone had planned for this garden to be enjoyed during all seasons.

It also included conveniently tall trees whose thick canopies blocked the view of anyone looking out of the upper windows of the palace or from the high, stone wall surrounding the garden.

Everything was dusted with a thin blanket of glittering snow. The chill air made Dean shiver in his light shirt. At least it had stopped snowing.

Orienting himself, Dean took note that the sun was still in the eastern sky and was just starting to peak over the palace minarets. The garden was currently in the shadow of the palace, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.

He scanned the top part of the wall that he could see above the treeline and spotted a gap, indicating a gate or doorway lay below.

At his feet, wood chips marked a narrow path through the shrubbery and flowers. The snow on it was practically gone from the passage of at least four separate pairs of feet that Dean could discern from what remained. Not knowing when the snow had stopped, those people could still be in the garden or long gone. He would have to take his chances.

Although the path probably meandered through the garden, providing a leisurely stroll for those wishing to enjoy the little patch of nature, Dean stuck to the path. Unless it circled back without reaching the exit, it would still be faster than trying to force his way through the thick plant life no matter how much it meandered.

Within minutes, Dean sighted ahead what must be the centre of the garden. So far, the garden had been deserted, with no sign of human or animal life. So Dean stepped directly into the small clearing and started across it before realizing that he wasn’t alone.

Up ahead, he could see the pathway continuing on between the trees, and on either side of him were twin stone benches with carvings on their legs.

And sitting on the bench to his left with his head down, eyes closed, and hands folded in front of him as if he was simply taking a moment of silence, was Lord Castiel.

Dean froze, and at the moment his footsteps ceased, Castiel opened his eyes and looked up at Dean with the same neutral expression he had worn earlier in the dungeon. And yet, in the span of just a few hours, the tension lines had deepened and those eyes had taken on a darker hue.

Castiel spoke. “I knew you would come this way.” Neither of them moved. “You had to have a spy in the palace in order to accomplish the kidnapping, and any decent spy would have known that the quickest and most likely to be deserted route from the dungeon out of the palace would be through this garden.”

Dean’s thoughts turned to Charlie. He sent up a silent prayer for her to make it out okay.

“All I had to do,” Castiel continued. “Was simply wait here until the escape attempt was made. I hope you realize that this makes you appear even guiltier.”

Dean quickly composed himself, readying for a fight. His hand flexed around the grip of his stolen sword in anticipation.

“If you were so sure I was coming, why are you here alone? That was foolish.” He grinned cockily. “You do know how many of your men I took out yesterday, right? And those were trained soldiers.”

Castiel just stared at him with a slightly sad expression and rose from the bench, making Dean take a step backward.

_And why am I backing away from an unarmed, untrained nobleman?_ He chided himself.

Then that unarmed, untrained nobleman snapped his fingers.

From the shadows of the shrubbery, six guards wearing Garrison armour moved into view, swords drawn.

“Five,” Castiel said, snapping Dean’s attention back to him. “You took out five men yesterday before you were subdued.”

And soldiers drew closer, forming a tight ring around Dean.

“And this time, you are injured. Stand down. You do not stand a chance. There is no need for further bloodshed.”

Dean calculated his odds, then threw down the subpar sword.

The soldiers moved in, undeterred by Dean’s scowls. But he saved his worst glare for Castiel as the man strolled calmly over.

“Take him back to his cell in the dungeon,” he ordered. “Post a new guard at the entrance. No visitors except for myself.”

Dean’s arms were wrenched back painfully, and his hands were shackled with iron chains. Obviously they weren’t taking any chances this time.

Two guards led the way before him, back down the path. Two guards took up the rear and one guard walked alongside him, holding the chain to his shackles.

With each step back to the dungeon, Dean felt his heart growing heavier and heavier until it was a weight in his chest, making his feet drag, his shoulders slump, and his head hang in defeat.

Behind him, he could hear Castiel giving instructions to the sixth guard who had remained behind.

“Find out what happened to the guard who was posted to the dungeon, and track down everyone who visited the dungeon prior to this man’s escape.”

Dean could only hope that Charlie had successfully released the Wayward Sisters and they were all already on their way back to Mortaleigh.

It was only dinner hour, and yet Castiel collapsed onto his bed nonetheless, utterly exhausted from the events of the last night and day.

He had not slept in… yes, thirty six hours.

After Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron had gone missing, and had not been found anywhere on the palace grounds, Balthazar had informed Michael of the results of the initial search, while Castiel had ridden off to follow his lead on the knights.

That was when Michael had locked down the city.

The King’s next step had been to delegate to Balthazar the task of coordinating a city-wide (yet preferably subtle) search, while Michael himself focused on the celebration. Someone had to ensure that the noble families of Calistamar were kept entertained and not panicked.

Upon Castiel’s return with Sir Dean and the female knights—the self-proclaimed Wayward Sisters—and hearing the reports from the men of the City Guard, Michael had wanted to call off the search, convinced that they had their suspects in custody and that they would lead them to their missing family members.

Castiel wasn’t so sure, and luckily he had been able to convince Michael that the search could still potentially turn up something. Because if he had called the search off, there was nothing Castiel could do besides follow Michael’s orders.

And so, Castiel had joined the search, which had lasted the rest of the night.

He had also been continually receiving reports from the guards watching the women and questioning them, and in the early dawn, Castiel had interrogated them himself. To no effect, unfortunately. All five of them either remained silent or threw taunts at him and their guards.

Eventually, Castiel had grown to envy the admittedly forced sleep his unconscious prisoner had been able to get as he fought weariness with every step he took and every word he spoke.

But he had tasks to do. Even now that things had settled into a kind of stalemate and he had finally managed to sneak away for a brief time, he still felt like he should be doing more.

His mind just wouldn’t stop circling around the problems at hand. Both Dean and the women had claimed simply to be in Granamar for the celebration, but Castiel knew there had to be more to it than that.

Castiel rose from his bed, strode over to his window, opened the latticed casement, and leaned out to close the shutters. Three stories below him, a small, private garden was bathed in the afternoon sunlight. The very same garden Dean had tried to escape through that morning.

Had he been at his own estate, he would have stayed at the window awhile despite the cold air streaming in, just breathing in the crisp winter scents of the countryside. Here, all that drifted his way was the stench of the city. He was grateful it wasn’t summer, during which not even the scent of the flowers in the garden below could penetrate the ripeness.

He firmly pulled the shutters shut, closed the casement, and stumbled his way back to the bed in the darkened room. Even though this was officially his room in the palace, it always felt unfamiliar to him. He longed for his own bed.

After he had buried himself amongst the blankets, his stomach growled. Castiel ignored it. Sleep was more important.

Yet his mind circled back to that morning.

He had received word that Dean was stirring and had made his way to the dungeon so he would be there when the man awoke.

After their brief “conversation,” during which he had also carried out Michael’s order to formally lay down charges, Castiel had immediately organized his trap. He had hoped to catch both Dean and his spy trying to escape, but had only re-captured Dean. Still, it had proven that someone had at least given him the knowledge, if not also the physical assistance, to escape.

No regular Mortaleigh knight had that much knowledge of Calistamar’s palace, and Castiel doubted it was sheer luck that had brought Dean down that exact route.

Once the scene in the garden had been dealt with, Castiel had rapidly come to the conclusion that if the spy was not with Dean, that he or she could very well be attempting to help the women escape as well. Immediately, he had summoned some guards and had gone with them to the women’s rooms. They had arrived just in time.

There they had found the guards unconscious and unresponsive, but a red-headed woman had still been working at the lock of one of the doors. He and his men had given chase to the woman, but she had managed to escape through the kitchen just as the wagon with the morning deliveries had pulled up, preventing him and his men from following her further.

For his part, Castiel was immensely grateful that he had had the sense to keep the keys to the rooms with himself, rather than leaving them with the guards, or else the spy and knights might have already been long gone by the time they had gotten there.

One of the guards had also recognized the woman, having seen her hanging around the palace on multiple occasions. Further proof that the six prisoners were working with a spy. After that, Castiel had given notice to the Garrison to watch out for the woman, but he suspected that, if she was as smart as she seemed, she had already found a way out of the city.

That was when Michael, furious at Castiel’s lack of progress as he saw it, and with the celebration being over, had taken over the search for the missing trio. He had dismissed Castiel, and Balthazar, the poor man, had become the gopher for Michael’s commands.

Under Michael’s instruction the Garrison had divided the city into cordoned off zones, and had begun searching inside each building and home, rather than just the streets and alleyways. It was apparent to Castiel and everyone else that Michael had abandoned his former demand for subtlety.

He had also sent Calistamar’s fastest riders down the two roads heading south-west and south-east from Granamar. Three down each: two to check each inn and waystation along the way, and one to keep riding until they either found something or hit the ocean.

Suddenly without anything to do, Castiel had checked with the guards that the prisoners were secure and given basic necessities, and then he had retreated to his room.

Castiel turned over on his side. His mind refused to calm. He just kept reviewing the events of the last twenty-four hours over and over again.

He tried to focus on just one small thing. Like the sound of his own breathing. The soft cotton of the sleep pants he was wearing. The faints sounds of the palace at work. The rougher wool of the blanket shielding him against the winter chill. The crackling fire in his room’s hearth.

He fell into a deep, exhausted sleep to the image of freckles and green eyes that he wanted to trust, yet was afraid what that would mean for the chances of finding his family.

_Bam._

_Bam._

_Bam._

Castiel rolled over. _Was it thundering outside? A thunderstorm would be an odd thing to have in the winter…_

His mind drifted.

_Bam-Bam-Bam._

_Bam-Bam-Bam._

Castiel bolted upright, the last dregs of sleep still clinging to him.

_Bam-Bam-Bam._

“Just a minute!” he called.

He shuffled off the bed, shuddering as his bare feet hit the cool wood floor. At least it wasn’t stone.

Taking the eight steps over to the bedroom door, he opened it, blinking bleary eyes at the frantic guard on the other side.

The man was panting, sucking in heavy breaths, and Castiel’s body stiffened.

“The prisoner,” the guard gasped. “He’s escaped. Again.”

The surge of adrenaline that surged through Castiel at that moment woke him up completely.

He demanded, “What happened before and after he was last seen?”

“Uh…” The guard shifted on his feet, eyes on the floor.

“Tell me!” Castiel snapped.

“Just after midnight, uh… the prisoner started making a ruckus in his cell. The, uh… guard you had stationed there, m’lord, he… he had to go into the cell block to shut the prisoner up. Er… tell him to pipe down, and all.”

The guard’s eyes shifted up to his face. He looked like he expected Castiel to decapitate the messenger, or perhaps he was friends with the dungeon guard and didn’t want to get the other man in trouble.

Knowing he probably looked like a madman himself just then, Castiel calmed his expression.

“Go on,” he said in an uninflected voice.

“Well… The prisoner said he was cold, m’lord. Said he wanted a blanket. And guard there said that you said—begging your pardon, m’lord—that he should, and I quote, ‘grant any reasonable requests’. But you see, m’lord. Seeing as he is the only guard down there, he had to leave his post to fetch said blanket. He didn’t want to leave his post, mind, but he is a good guard, m’lord, and follows orders. So off he went.”

Castiel nodded for the guard to continue, still maintaining an outward serenity. Internally, his heart was racing as every second he spent here was another second Dean could slip through his fingers permanently. Yet, this was critical information that he needed to know before he acted, or the results could be the same.

The guard continued. “So he hurried as fast as he could until he found the first servant he saw—one of them kitchen boys. He told the boy to fetch a blanket and bring it down to the dungeon. Then he hurried back to his post.”

“And when he got back the prisoner was gone?”

“No, er… Well, probably.” The guard scratch his head.

Castiel felt himself frown. “Explain.”

“Uh… Well, you see, he didn’t exactly check on the prisoner right when he got back to his post. He waited until the boy came with the blanket. And when he went in _then_, the prisoner was gone. But seeing as that’s the only way out, he must’ve been gone before the guard came back down… I suppose.”

Castiel scrubbed a hand down his face.

When he opened his eyes again, the guard was staring at him with wide eyes, wringing his hands together.

Castiel sighed. “Your friend is not in trouble. He followed his orders, like you said. The fault is mine for not realizing the implications of my instructions and not posting two guards instead of one.”

The guard bobbed his head. “Thank you, m’lord. Thank you. You and the Princes are always kind.”

Compared to Michael, Castiel was sure most people would be.

“Let us just hope we can find them. How long ago did the guard leave his post to find a blanket?”

“About half an hour, m’lord. Maybe more than that by now. He went to Brigadier Balthazar right away and the Brigadier sent me to give you the news. The other guards are already out looking for the prisoner.”

“Has the King been informed?” Castiel asked, not quite sure which answer he wanted to hear.

The guard hesitated for a moment, then admitted, “Not that I know of, m’lord.”

Castiel clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. It had to be done.

“Go to the King. Tell him that the prisoner is missing, and that the Brigadier and myself are hunting for him. If he asks you what happened, tell him you don’t know and that I said I’d explain.”

“Wake the King, m’lord? In the middle of the night?”

Castiel had to take a moment to reorient himself. Right, he had fallen asleep in the late afternoon. He had no idea how long he had slept, but apparently it was well into the night now.

He amended his orders. “Wake the King’s steward first. The steward will either wake the King or decide not to.”

The guard nodded and started rushing off.

A thought occurred to Castiel. “Wait!” The guard turned. “Were there any signs as to how the prisoner escaped his cell?”

The guard’s face scrunched as he considered this. “I think he said something about the bars being bent?”

_Bent bars?_

“Thank you.”

Knowing that Balthazar would have the palace and city searched in short order, Castiel hurried down to the dungeon to see the cell for himself.

As always, the stench and damp hit him like a wall as he entered the depressing place.

When he reached Dean’s cell, he saw that, sure enough, the bars of the cell were bent as though a significant force had placed itself between two of the bars and pushed outwards, creating a space big enough for a man to slip through.

At first he thought that Dean had somehow gotten his hands on a pry bar. But then he noticed something odd and leaned in to get a better look.

There, on each of the bent bars, was a set of handprints, indented into the iron.

_Mortaleigh Magick._

Castiel hadn’t even considered that Dean, this wandering knight that he had captured, could be capable of such magical strength. This degree of magical physical augmentation was only seen either within the high level military working directly under the royal family of Mortaleigh or in the royal family itself.

Obviously he had been misled. He would have to be more cautious with Dean when he captured him again.

The same could be said of the women. If Dean had this strength, they very well could as well.

_The women._ The thought stuck Castiel like a blow to the chest.

He spun and raced back up the stairs, three at a time. He sprinted to the lesser-used rooms on the south side of the palace where the female knights were being kept, nearly bowling over three servants in his rush.

During Dean’s previous escape attempt, he had had the assistance of his spy. This time, however, he was presumably on his own. And if he was on his own, in order to free the women, he would have to do it himself.

As Castiel raced to the other wing of the palace, he snatched the first guard he saw and commanded him to follow him. The guard eyed Castiel’s bare chest and sleep pants with disdain, but complied nonetheless.

When he and the guard arrived, the scene laid out in the hallway, which the re-purposed rooms were attached to, did not inspire confidence in his chances of catching the escapee—escapees now, it seemed.

The two guards were on the ground and, based on the red marks on their faces, they appeared as though they had been knocked out by one, maybe two, expertly placed blows.

Clearly, there had been a fight, but it had been brief and quiet enough not to bring any nearby palace staff running.

The doors to each of the five rooms were thrown open. Castiel inspected the first one, only to find that the locking mechanism had been wrenched open with extreme force.

_More Magick…_

An efficient inspection of each room revealed that they were all empty.

For the second time in as many days, Castiel swore.

The guard, who had lingered in the hallway, approached as Castiel exited the last room. Castiel saw him, stepped up to the young man, and grabbed his collar.

“Alert the Garrison. The prisoner, Dean Winchester, will be travelling with five women. They will likely be unarmed and without outer garments, but they are to be considered extremely dangerous—particularly Winchester. Proceed with caution. If they are located, no one is to engage unless you have twice as many men as you think you need to win. Otherwise, observe and track only. Do you understand?”

Castiel knew his face was betraying his fury, but he just couldn’t contain it right then.

_How could he have let Dean escape a _second_ time?_

The guard’s head bobbed up and down rapidly. Castiel released him and he raced off.

Alone once more, Castiel just stood there, unsure of what step he should take next.

He wished it was back before the whole celebration had even taken place. Before any of this had even happened.

He wished for his family’s safe return.

He could wish all he wanted, but what could he do?

How could he locate Dean this time?

Locate…

Castiel took off at a full sprint back toward the dungeon. He didn’t go all the way there, however. Instead he stopped at one particular door located between two paintings hanging in Memory Hall. They depicted Mortaleigh’s East Aquare and Calistamar’s West Aquare, two towns on opposite sides of the Aqualis River, which acted as the official border between the two kingdoms.

Inside, shelves were loaded with the most random assortment of items one could find outside of a market trinket shop. And even then, it was a close call.

This room was where the personal belongings of the prisoners condemned to the dungeon cells were stored. It was unsurprising, therefore, that the vast majority of items were covered with thick layers of dust, having been stored there since the time of the Blight War. The air movement from the open door and Castiel’s passing caused the dust to rise up once more, making his nose itch.

Tracks from the person who had been there just yesterday were clearly visible, allowing him to quickly discover the resting place of the item he sought—a heavy leather coat. _Dean’s_ leather coat.

Peering closely at it in the dim lighting, Castiel could see the blood stains.

Target in hand, he retreated from the room and made his way to the very same garden where he had captured Dean the first time.

Outside, the winter wind snapped at his bare skin, making him shiver. He ignored it.

Still moving with purpose, he followed the path until he stood in the center of the clearing.

Then, after shifting himself until he felt completely balanced, Castiel lay his hand on the jacket and concentrated. He drew on his Grace—Calistamar’s own equivalent to Magick—while focusing on the blood’s connection to Dean, following that connection back to its source.

His eyes closed as his mind moved. He had chosen the garden because it was the last place he and Dean had met. He had chosen the leather jacket both because of the blood on it, a tangible connection to Dean, but also because was a personal item that Dean most likely would have worn often. As soft and supple as the leather was from wear, Castiel knew he had been correct.

_Ping._

His eyes snapped open—eyes that would be glowing with a blue-white light right about then before the Grace faded away. The use of the Grace was worth it, however, because now Castiel knew where Dean Winchester was at that exact moment.

Castiel strode over to the gate in the exterior wall of the garden, one barred from the inside with a simple wood beam. Had Dean made it past Castiel that morning, he would have had just as easy a time getting out of the garden as Castiel now did.

Out on the quiet street that abutted the palace, Castiel strode briskly to the nearby stable which was kept on this side of the palace so the scent of the horses and their waste wouldn’t carry into the palace itself by the western winds.

Waving aside the stablehands, he saddled and bridled his horse, dubbed Jimmy by his housekeeper.

“I need a coat,” he added at the last possible second. One of the stablehands pulled out a tan riding jacket and handed it to him.

Castiel threw it on, mounted, and rode off at a gallop.

It took him six minutes to reach to reach _The White Women_ brothel on the outskirts of the city. It was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall establishment that backed up right against Granamar’s exterior wall between a tannery that overwhelmed any noses within a ten-block radius and a row of dilapidated houses that were really little more than shacks.

At the entrance, a burly man with a cutlass on his belt gave Castiel a shrewd evaluation with his dark eyes.

Trying to maintain his air of dignity in only his sleep pants and a borrowed jacket, Castiel dismounted and dropped Jimmy’s reins on the ground—the horse would stay where he was put and wouldn’t allow anyone else to approach him. As he approached the brothel, its guard cracked open the door and called to someone inside.

A moment later a woman with long dark hair and wearing a white dress poked her head out. She caught sight of Castiel, gave him her own visual inspection, and then nodded to the burly man, who stepped aside to let him enter.

Inside, women in various revealing white costumes were entertaining men on a selection of sofas, couches, and lounge chairs. The sounds of copulation drifted from the curtained off back rooms.

Castiel seriously doubted that the knights had come here to relax before making their escape. No, this had to be part of it somehow, even if he couldn’t yet see how.

The woman who had given the approval to let him in, suddenly stepped into Castiel’s path.

“Hello there. I’m Constance, owner of the _Women in White_. Do you have something or someone particular in mind, or would you like browse a bit?” Constance’s eyes dipped down. “You look like a man who likes a bit of bondage.”

“Uh, thank you, but no. I’m—I’m here on official business,” Castiel stuttered.

Constance raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’m asking—uh, in the name of the King—if you’ve seen a man and five women come in here. It would not have been very long ago.”

“No, sorry, sweetie. Some nobles from the party get a little lost and you’re here to take them home?”

“Uh, no. You recall being searched earlier for an escaped prisoner?”

Constance’s eyes widened. “But that man was caught, wasn’t he?”

“Er, yes…” Castiel winced. “But he has escaped… again. With his companions.”

Constance threw back her head and laughed. It was an eerie sound. Castiel flushed.

“Pity,” she said. “Wish they had come here. The more the merrier. I can certainly take _you_ home though.” She winked.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Perhaps another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He frowned. “You’re certain that you didn’t see anyone come in recently?”

Constance gave Castiel a pitying smile. “Sorry, sweetie. Just my regular patrons.”

“I know they came in here,” he insisted.

Constance’s smile flickered. Only for a second, but Castiel saw it.

His hand flicked up and touched her temple before she had even a second to protest. Then she gasped, but he was already inside her mind, rifling through her most recent memories for any sign of Dean and the women.

_There._

Through Constance’s eyes, Castiel saw her showing Dean and the female knights to a concealed passageway in the back of the pleasure house.

He released her immediately, hissing, “You lied.” Before Constance could reorient herself and call for assistance, Castiel was striding to the rear hallway. Past the private rooms, he entered a backroom. Inside was a small office with a rudimentary kitchen. On a threadbare rug, two small children were playing with obviously much-loved stuffed animals. They looked up with wide, innocent eyes when he entered and then continued to watch him.

Locating the hidden passageway with ease, Castiel pressed the lever to unlatch it, snatched a torch of the wall and continued on.

The low ceiling, narrow walls, uneven stone floor and lack of light other than the torch in his hand prevented him from sprinting, but he still kept up a steady jog, even though he did stumble a few times. Whether that was from the aforementioned issues, or because using both _localization_ and _telepathy_ in such a short time was taking its toll on him, Castiel didn’t know and didn’t care.

Luckily, the passage wasn’t very long and Castiel was forced to come up short at a stone wall blocking his way. As he stared at the wall, he realized that the light by which he was viewing it wasn’t just coming from his torch. His eyes shunted downward to see a low grate sunk into the stone from which moonlight was faintly illuminating the tunnel.

The grate itself mimicked those of the drain trenches that allowed street refuse and water run-off to leave the city under the walls at regular intervals.

This grate was partially askew, as if it had been replaced in a hurry. Castiel tossed his torch onto the damp stone floor, easily lifted the grate away, and crawled through the opening. Cold wetness soaked through his pants and Castiel made plans to scrub his entire body thoroughly in scalding water after this was done.

Seconds later, however, he was exiting the other side. He had barely stood when a sudden motion in his peripheral vision had him ducking back down again.

After quick-stepping back, to his amazement, Castiel could see Dean standing off to his right in the deeper shadows cast by the palace, out of the moonlight.

Behind Dean, he could just make out two more shadow figures. Just two.

Castiel whirled around just in time to avoid being skewered by the blade of one of the three knights standing behind him. Obviously they had managed to purloin some weapons on their way out of the city.

With enemies at his front and back, Castiel sidestepped out into the moonlight. His only counter-move to this ambush.

He started to take a few more steps back when Dean spoke in a low, warning voice. “Don’t.”

He gestured to one of the smaller, dark-haired knights—Alex, she had said her name was—who was brandishing a throwing dagger, spinning it around with a single hand.

Castiel obediently stepped back into the shadows.

Despite his compliance, the knight suddenly threw the dagger.

“Don’t!” Castiel heard Dean shout as the weapon left her hand, spinning end over end as it came at him.

Castiel dropped to the ground and rolled out of the dagger’s path. It made a hiss through the air as it passed by his head.

Still in motion, he rose up and darted away from the base of the wall until he had finally moved back far enough to see the tiny figures of guards on the top of the walls. And if he could see them, then they could see him.

“Over here!” he yelled loudly. “Prisoners—”

A body slammed into him, knocking him to his back on the ground and landing on top of him. The impact from both forced all of the air from Castiel’s lungs.

He gasped in pain at the same time that his assailant groaned. He tried to roll away, but before he could catch his breath, Dean had settled on top of him, pinning him to the ground with his hands on Castiel’s wrists.

Over their laboured breathing, Castiel caught the sound of raised voices from the top of the wall.

He smiled. Dean’s attempt to stop him from drawing attention to them had failed. Soon enough half the Garrison would be riding around to their position.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean cursed. “Dammit!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I panicked for a second and the dagger just slipped.” From his position on the ground, Castiel could see Alex holding up her hand apologetically. The short, blond one—Claire—rolled her eyes, while the dark-skinned one—Patience—patted the first’s shoulder soothingly.

Donna, the blond older woman, began speaking to the younger three in hushed tones while Jody, the older short-haired woman, strode over to where Dean had Castiel pinned.

Castiel didn’t even try to get up. Backup was on its way and Dean had yet to draw or ask for a weapon, so it didn’t appear that these people were intending to kill him unless they had to.

“We need to leave. Now,” Jody said.

Dean nodded and started to rise off Castiel.

Oh, no, he didn’t. The Garrison was still a few minutes off and Castiel couldn’t just let them get away.

So he flexed his wrists so that his fingers were lightly grasping Dean’s wrist as well. Then he summoned his Grace for the third time that night, feeling the exhaustion pulling at him.

He really was out of practise, like Gabriel had continually scolded him for.

Dean felt the touch and his eyes shifted to Castiel’s. Those green eyes widened as he seemed to realize what was about to happen. _Interesting_, Castiel thought.

“Go!” he managed to grunt out just before his body collapsed on top of Castiel, completely unconscious.

For a few seconds, Castiel couldn’t move as weakness stole through his entire body as the use of _localization_, _telepathy_, and now _sedation_ all in one night truly hit him. He lost sight of the women.

All he could feel was Dean’s warm, firm body pressed against his own, his clothing shifting against Castiel’s bare chest as they both breathed. The way Dean’s head had landed meant that Castiel could feel his every exhalation against his neck.

A shiver made its way down Castiel’s spine at the unfamiliar proximity, and his heartbeat sped up significantly.

At least, the increased blood flow seemed to help Castiel to recover faster, and after a minute he managed to rise, shifting Dean’s body off him.

The women were long gone, probably having disappeared into the forests surrounding the palace on three sides before rising into mountains which provided Granamar with natural fortification.

In the distance Castiel could see a multitude of riders converging on them.

His vision blurred then, and dizziness hit him.

He also just then remembered that he had never actually taken the time to eat the previous day, which combined with limited sleep and over use of Grace meant that his body was probably running on fumes.

So really, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he dropped into unconsciousness right beside Dean Winchester.


	4. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

The sleep that Castiel got after passing out was the best sleep he got over the next four days.

On each and every day, Dean had made a new escape attempt. Some had been more successful than others, but the attempt was always made.

Castiel had tried wrist and leg shackles, adding a bed frame to the cell and tying him to it, and even a ball and chain. Yet, after all that, Dean had still managed to force, seduce or trick his way out of his cell every time. And every time, Castiel had caught him—with varying degrees of difficulty.

It had gotten to the point that likely all members of the palace staff had seen Castiel carrying around Dean’s stained leather coat everywhere he went.

Hannah and Balthazar had begun to comment on it.

And he and Balthazar were no closer to discovering what had happened to his vanished brothers and nephew.

Had they merely wandered off, they would have turned up by now. Had they been kidnapped, as originally thought, Michael should have received a ransom demand. Had something dire befallen them… Well, Castiel preferred not even to consider that.

One potential reason for the lack of a ransom demand could be that the mastermind behind the plot was currently in Calistamar’s dungeon and his underlings were unwilling to issue one without him.

But there was no proof. No evidence. And that wasn’t even the most frustrating part. No, that honour belonged to Dean himself.

Every palace staff and guard of the Garrison, as well as approximately a quarter of the city’s population, had been intensively interrogated. Yet no one had seen any of the three leaving the palace. The highlight of Castiel’s day yesterday—besides his daily re-capturing of Dean—had been when he happened to separately interview two maids, both named Ruby: one a thin blonde, the other a voluptuous brunette. Neither had any information.

Everything else was tedious leg work, which under normal circumstances, Castiel wouldn’t have minded, but lives were on the line and each day that passed only increased his worry.

Which, in turn, made for one easily agitated Castiel.

Every standing structure in the city had undergone a thorough inspection, yet revealed no clues. The roadways had been flooded with Garrison soldiers, yet no suspicious persons or transports had been reported outside of the usual.

It was as if Gabriel, Metatron and Samandriel had somehow managed to disappear into thin air.

Michael, Anna and numerous others (Castiel himself included, after he had regained his strength) had tried _localize_ on items belonging to the trio—it hadn’t worked for any of them. Either they were being cloaked, or they no longer existed in this world. The latter being something Castiel resolutely refused to believe.

Their family had already lost their father, mothers, and three brothers—Raphael, Uriel and Zachariah—and Castiel wasn’t about to let them lose any more family members. Not if he could help it.

Last night, as he had been trying to get some much needed sleep, Castiel had come to a decision.

There were too many unknowns in the palace, with all its servants moving in and out at all hours of the day. Simply being as big as it was created a huge liability.

So, Castiel had decided to take Dean back to his estate in secret. The secrecy would also hinder any rescue attempts by the Wayward Sisters, or any other ally of Dean Winchester’s.

His more remote, secluded, and less populated estate would allow Castiel to better control the variables, and hopefully, prevent Dean from staging even more escape attempts.

Castiel had done all he could in Granamar and had only hit dead ends. The trail had gone cold. As of that morning, it had now been five days—over a hundred hours—since Gabriel, Metatron, and Samandriel had disappeared. At this point, they could be anywhere on the continent of Liscalis.

If Castiel was honest with himself, any kidnappers could, in fact, already be taking them across the ocean and completely out of reach.

It was time to pull on the one dangling thread that made the least sense in this whole senseless mess: Dean Winchester.

What had been his purpose in coming to Granamar?

Had he and his knights come with nefarious purpose, planning on kidnapping any royals they could get their hands on? And if so, why?

Was it merely the ploy of mercenaries out for a ransom? Or had they acted on the order of the King of Mortaleigh to purposefully break the peace?

Castiel was beginning to have his doubts regarding Dean’s involvement in the abduction, if that’s what it was. The man’s story had not changed from day one, despite a number of separate questionings by different guards and staff under Castiel’s instructions—even one after he had been woken up in the middle of the night by a pail of freezing cold water. The details had never changed.

And yet, Castiel could also tell that Dean was hiding something. He regretted not using _telepathy_ on Dean from the start, but he hadn’t wanted to use his Grace at the beginning—for the same reason why the royal family hadn’t initially wanted to use _localize_ to try to find Gabriel, Samandriel and Metatron. Grace was simply too precious to waste.

Of course, then Castiel had gone and used his too much. It was only just starting to recover from using _localize_ in his own attempt to find his family members once they had decided to try that method.

Castiel had considered other people to use _telepathy _on Dean, but Michael was off, busy managing the kingdom, and besides, the king was a hammer with his Grace and this kind of _telepathy_ required a scalpel. Unfortunately, the only other people living in the palace skilled enough to extract the information Castiel needed without leaving Dean a vegetable afterwards had been Gabriel and Metatron themselves.

Castiel had written a letter, asking Naomi to come do the interrogation, but by the time his messenger had reached her way down in the south in Burnamar, she was already elbow deep in a border skirmish caused by what sounded like the Wayward Sisters (Stirring up trouble for their friend?), and she couldn’t get away.

All of this thought process had led Castiel to the conclusion that at his own estate, he would be able to hold Dean securely until his magic returned, and would then be able to take his time with the delicate process of extracting any pertinent information from Dean.

If Dean was innocent, the last thing Castiel wanted was to damage him. And if he was guilty, Castiel knew Michael would want him fully aware and cognizant when he was executed for treason.

And that was why Castiel could be found that morning searching out Michael in his War Room where the King looked harried—never a good sign. Anna was there too, the source of Michael’s grief as he fielded her furious demands and accusations.

“There must be something you can do to find my son.”

“Our son,” Michael retorted. “He’s our son, and I’m doing everything I can.”

“Yet he’s still missing. Where are the soldiers searching the outlying villages? Where is the team of Grace Masters to _localize_ him? Where is the army storming into Mortaleigh to demand his return? Why are _you_ not out there looking?”

“Anna, my love,” Michael soothed, though his irritation showed. “We don’t have enough soldiers to effectively search every village. The Grace Masters have tried _localize_ with the same results we had. And, as warranted as it may be, I cannot just send my army to march into Mortaleigh and start a war without hard evidence that they are responsible. The other kingdoms would not be willing to support us if I did that.”

“You have one of Mortaleigh’s men in custody!”

“Yes, and Castiel is working on that. Aren’t you, Castiel?”

Anna whipped around, spotting him lurking in the doorway. Castiel quickly bowed low.

“News. Do you have news?” she demanded.

“Uh, no, your Majesty. Please accept my apologies.”

Anna let out a feline growl, turned back to Michael, and poked him firmly in the chest. Michael grunted.

“Find him. Now,” she stated. “I am going to make inquiries into the messengers we sent out.”

Then she stalked out, a woman on the warpath.

Castiel stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Michael held up a hand.

The King sat down at his desk and resumed a letter he must have been writing before Anna interrupted.

Castiel waited. He had already said he didn’t have any news, so he shouldn’t have been shocked that Michael would chose to finish a letter over listening to his blood-kin. Yet, he was, all the same.

Michael’s disregard of his ‘lesser’ half-brothers never really stopped hurting, no matter how many times it happened.

Castiel’s gaze moved from Michael to the family portraits hanging behind him.

In the center, and with by far the largest, most ornate, and most delicately detailed frame, hung the portrait of Elyon Seraphon—Castiel’s father and one half of the sibling pair who had founded Calistamar sixty years ago.

During the aftershocks of the Great Divide—when an earthquake had split Liscalis in two—they had been shipwrecked on what would become the smaller Calistamar side. At the time, Mortaleigh had controlled the whole continent.

It had taken only two years for Elyon and his sister, Amara, to take control of the decimated new island and form Calistamar, with Elyon as its first king. Eight years later, three years after the start of the Blight and against Elyon’s wishes, Amara had struck the blow against Mortaleigh that had started the Blight War. For that, she had been banished.

The War had lasted for thirteen long years, with the Peace Treaty finally having been signed when Castiel was just over a year old. Both kingdoms had not forgotten that dark time.

On either side of Elyon were his four legitimate sons, born from his first and only wife, Gaia.

Stern-faced Michael.

Smirking Lucifer.

Lost and misguided Raphael.

Mischievous Gabriel, secrets glinting in his eyes.

On the wall to Elyon’s right was a mural: a huge map of Liscalis in astonishing detail and regularly updated by artisan painters and cartographers, but only after a regular-sized painting of the previous work was completed and hung in the Hall of Maps.

On his left were much smaller and plainer paintings of his bastards.

Missing Metatron.

Infant Uriel, portrayed as a sleeping babe despite having been stillborn.

Level-headed Naomi.

Determined Zachariah, forever ten after his accident.

And finally, Castiel, the youngest.

How those painting hadn’t been taken down the moment Michael had assumed the throne, Castiel had no idea. Perhaps out of Michael’s ongoing conviction that their father was out there somewhere, watching over them?

Looking at the paintings now, the reminder smiling down at him that only five of his father’s nine children were still living hit him hard. Presuming that Gabriel and Metatron were still alive. It made him wonder (not for the first time), if that was part of the reason why their father had abandoned the rest of them.

Before he could follow that thought into the darker recesses of his brain, Michael replaced his quill in the ink pot and sanded his letter.

After folding the paper and placing the royal seal on it, Michael looked up and inclined his head for Castiel to speak.

“Bro—Your Majesty, I would like to request permission to remove the prisoner from the dungeon and take him to my personal estate.” Castiel continued on, explaining his reasoning as best he could while Michael gazed on inscrutably.

When he finished, Michael leaned back in his chair, considering, and silence reigned for a minute more.

Finally, he said, “Very well. It is apparent that you have not been able to get anything out of the man here. Perhaps you will have better luck outside of the palace.” The silent “or else” was implied.

Michael wasn’t done. “Since there has been so much… difficulty, I will also send along some extra help.”

Castiel started to protest, but Michael waved him off. “Do not fear. I will not tell anyone else of your plan. It will remain a secret, but I have already requested assistance in this and when that assistance arrives, I will redirect him to you. He will have full autonomy to get any information out of this Sir Dean that he can. Is that clear?”

Castiel grudgingly bowed his head in assent. “Have you heard from the King—”

“You are dismissed.”

After leaving Michael’s office, Castiel paused to take a deep breath. _Everything will be fine,_ he told himself.

His next step: going down to the servants’ quarters to find his personal valet, Benjamin, who had travelled with him from his estate. He instructed the man to ready their horses for the journey ahead, as well as fetching a particular horse. When Benjamin looked ready to ask who the extra horse was for, Castiel immediately distracted him by also asking him to procure some additional items as well.

That done, Castiel then informed the palace chamberlain that he would be departing within the hour. He wanted to get going as early as possibly so as to reach his estate before the sun set. The chamberlain promised to arrange for the few belongings Castiel had brought to be brought down to the stables.

The final step: Castiel left the palace and headed to the marketplace. There, he purchased a number of items, then returned to the palace.

All that remained was to prepare the prisoner for transport.

He went straight down to the dungeon and dismissed the two guards at the door. They didn’t ask any questions.

What a sight Castiel walked into at that moment.

Dean, shirtless, was doing push-ups against the surely cold, stone floor. The only items disguising his upper body from view were two black, leather bands wrapped snuggly around each of Dean’s biceps.

Upon spying Castiel, Dean stopped and stood, his still tanned skin glistening with sweat. He grabbed his shirt and started wiping himself down with it.

“It’s the only way to stay warm down here,” he said.

“What?”

Dean chuckled. “Your dungeon’s freezing. The exercises keep my body warm.”

“You—” Castiel swallowed, trying to recompose himself and ignore the distraction of Dean’s half-naked body which he totally did not vividly remember being pressed up against just a few nights ago.

He was pretty sure he was failing.

Dean chuckled again, obviously laughing at Castiel being flustered. He felt his cheeks heat, an unusual occurrence, or so he thought, and cleared his throat.

Suddenly recalling the ball of material in his hands, he abruptly tossed part of it through the bars at Dean.

Dean managed to catch the fabric despite the unexpected toss, dropping his own shirt in the process. He held it up for inspection and Castiel nearly chuckled himself as he watched Dean’s face drop just as the other man realized what it was: an old, torn and re-stitched cloak made out of coarse black wool.

Castiel tossed in the rest of the clothing he had purchased from the market: a plain grey shirt that might have once been white and tan riding breeches.

Dean took a moment to consider the clothing and gave Castiel a once-over, taking in his own long, tan coat over a starched-white shirt, black waist coat, and black riding breeches.

“Are we going somewhere?”

Castiel held up the last items, which he had hooked onto his sword belt: Dean’s personal pair of iron wrist cuffs and chain.

Dean saw them and sighed. “Well, at least I’m getting out of the dungeon.”

“You’ve been out of the dungeon plenty of times,” Castiel said resentfully. “But yes, we are going somewhere.”

“Not that this cloak isn’t _great_, but can I get my leather coat back? It’s my favourite coat.”

“No,” replied Castiel succinctly, thinking of the coat tucked safely away in his packed bags. He may have use of it yet. “Get dressed.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Dean stepped forward, making Castiel eye him warily, but he merely hooked his ‘new’ clothes on one of the horizontal crossbars of the cell.

Then, with a confident smirk, he shucked his pants.

Dean wasn’t wearing any undergarments. As such, Castiel got to see, well, _everything_, before he could avert his gaze. He did refuse to turn around, however, keeping Dean in his peripherals as he finished dressing. So much for blushing being a rare occurrence for him…

“What now?” Dean asked when he was done. Castiel looked him over approvingly. As long as he wore the hood of the cloak to hide his striking face, Dean would look completely ordinary.

Satisfied, Castiel said, “Hold your hands out through the bars. You know the routine by now.”

“That I do,” Dean admitted. “Although this part is usually done by your rough-handed guards. Not noblemen, like yourself.”

Castiel ignored the comment, stepping up to the bars as Dean obediently placed his hands together through them. He nearly fumbled the cuffs, but in the end he managed to get them secured around Dean’s wrists.

As he did so, he observed with a pang of guilt that Dean’s wrists were already bruised and chaffing from rough handling while he had been wearing the cuffs previously.

His eyes flicked up to Dean’s face as the man tried to hide a wince.

The ache of sympathy that rose then, Castiel consciously worked to squash down, all while trying to be as gentle as possible.

The pain left Dean’s face as Castiel’s motions softened, and he sent Castiel an inquiring look. He had noticed. Castiel tried not to blush again. He probably failed.

Cuffs in place, Castiel let Dean retract his hands and unlocked the cell door using the ring of keys he had commandeered from the guards. He removed the key to the cuffs from the ring and left the rest of the dungeon keys dangling from the key ring which hung from the key still in the lock of the cell door. The guards would find it there.

He gestured for Dean to move ahead of him. Dean cautiously emerged from cell, for the first time with permission. He kept an eye on Castiel the entire time, then had to face forward as he headed toward the stairs, lest he trip and fall. Castiel followed closely behind.

The two of them made their way through the back corridors of the palace with Castiel instructing Dean where to turn from his position behind him.

Dean followed the instructions and didn’t make any moves to escape, for which Castiel was grateful, because the last thing he needed was for Dean to cause a ruckus that would only have everyone questioning what Castiel was doing with the prisoner.

He could only hope that the rest of their journey passed as smoothly.

When they arrived at the stables, Dean was pleasantly surprised. Not only was he getting out of the dungeon, but he was apparently going for a ride somewhere. Though the air was crisp, the sky was bright and sunny, and Dean held his face up to the sun.

That day was really looking up for him.

Castiel directed him over to a trio of two Thoroughbred horses and one spotted Appaloosa, two of which were already saddled and bridled. Both saddled horses also carried sets of full saddle bags.

“Baby!” Dean called out, racing forward.

The unsaddled Thoroughbred nickered at him as he grasped her face. She nosed his cheek.

“Oh, how I missed you, Baby.”

“A fine horse,” Castiel said, coming up beside him. Baby snorted at him.

“Hey, girl. It’s alright,” Dean soothed. Running his hands down her face. She snorted at him too, and Dean laughed. He looked over at Castiel, who was gazing admiringly at Baby’s midnight black coat with silver points.

Dean considered a moment, then said, “You can touch her. She won’t bite. Not unless I tell her to.” He smiled coyly.

Castiel coughed, but Dean would swear it was covering a laugh. Then the other man reached out and touched Baby’s flank while Dean stroked her neck soothingly.

“How did you find her?” Dean questioned as Castiel admired his mount.

“It wasn’t very hard,” he replied. “When we first spoke, you had mentioned having stabled your horses just outside the city. After most of the celebration’s guests had left, it was a fairly simple matter to check those stables for abandoned horses.”

“And?”

“And your… companions, it seems, had already collected their horses. But Baby here was still there. Causing a bit of trouble, I might add.”

Dean clucked at his horse. “Were you naughty, Baby? Didn’t let any of those strangers get close, I bet.”

“That’s… exactly right. I managed to get her to follow me using… er, using your coat, until we could get her here to the palace stables where we could keep an eye on her.”

“So you do have it!”

“Uh, yes. But you’re not getting it back.” Castiel suddenly stepped away from Baby.

“Don’t just walk away!” Dean called as Castiel walked over to the other Thoroughbred—a dun stallion with a silky brown mane.

Castiel ignored him and mounted his horse.

“Such a frustrating man,” Dean muttered to Baby. “But he’s not so bad.”

A third man, looking to be a servant of some kind, approached with Dean’s saddle. “I tried to saddle her, sir, but…” He held up a bandaged hand.

“Oh, um, sorry about that. She really doesn’t like strangers.”

Dean took the saddle from the poor guy, and got Baby suited up himself, with only some slight difficulty due to his wrists being chained. Once she was all set to go, complete with a set of saddle bags of her own, Dean mounted up.

The servant had mounted the Appaloosa as well. Apparently he was joining them on this adventure.

Dean was more curious than anything about what was going on. And if he was being honest with himself, he felt a bit of excitement rising in him too.

Before they departed, Castiel expertly directed his horse until it was standing right beside Baby, nose to tail so that Dean and Castiel were facing each other from the backs of their respective horses. Baby impatiently pawed the ground with her hoof.

Then Castiel unhurriedly reached toward Dean’s face. Dean held his breath, but he simply tugged the hood of Dean’s cloak up over his head.

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Castiel beat him to it. “For now,” he said cryptically in his stern, deep voice, and Dean (or his traitorous hormones) decided to let it slide.

Castiel also used the opportunity to hide his shackles under the cloak, then turned up the collar of his own coat, partially obscuring his face.

“Benjamin, take the lead, please.”

The servant, Benjamin, flicked his reins and the Appaloosa trotted off down the street. Dean and then Castiel followed.

They rode in silence through the city. The combination of their commoner outfits and being on horseback, rather than in a carriage, kept them from drawing the attention of the regular city-folk going about their daily business that morning.

Even though he had taken note of the packed saddlebags, Dean still couldn’t quite believe it when they actually approached the main gates of Granamar. His gaze shifted to Castiel, but the man’s own gaze was locked on the gate ahead.

They rode through the checkpoint unmolested, and Dean realized that any lockdown that they might have put on the city must have been lifted. Yet, he was still under arrest, which didn’t bode well, as it only meant that they had given up on finding the three missing men within the city limits.

Dean swore under his breath.

Once they were a fair distance away from the city and the traffic on the main road they were travelling on had died down, Dean threw back his hood.

“Dean…” Castiel said warningly. That deep, gravelly tone though just had Dean wondering if it was the same tone Castiel used in bed. He had to supress a delicious shudder as a result of his traitorous thoughts.

“What?” Dean said, adjusting himself on his saddle. “That thing is constricting. Where are we going anyway?”

He heard Castiel sigh in resignation as the man rode up beside him. Castiel turned down his own collar.

“Do you know where my estate is?”

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “Why, in all of Liscalis, would I know that?”

Castiel nodded, as if he expected as much. Dean blinked.

“Wait. We’re going to your home?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To better keep you contained. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve become quite the escape artist.”

Dean laughed loudly. “What? Already tired of playing our little game of cat and mouse?”

Castiel’s cheeks once again pinked beautifully. It was quickly become Dean’s new mission in life to find new ways to make them do that. “If that’s what we’re playing, why am I always the cat?”

“Maybe next time I’ll be the cat and I can be the one chasing you,” Dean said, grinning suggestively.

Castiel’s whole face flushed that time before his horse suddenly picked up speed, seemingly with no visible instruction from Castiel, moving ahead until Dean could no longer see his face.

Benjamin dropped back behind Castiel, coming level with Dean, and gave him a raised eyebrow.

Dean smiled secretively and shrugged in a “What did I do?” kind of way.

Benjamin rolled his eyes, but his lips also quirked into a smile. Dean wondered if he just made a friend.

They rode for hours until even Dean, frequent rider that he was, was developing a sore butt. By this point, they were practically in the middle of nowhere since they had left the main road a few hours back, and had been winding through country roads barely more than tracks since then.

At least the sky had remained clear, though the ground was still white. Dean liked winter well enough, but summer was his time. He couldn’t wait for the signs of spring to start showing over the next month or so.

They were currently loitering by the roadside while Castiel was getting exasperated because Benjamin had forgotten to grab food from the kitchen and the chamberlain hadn’t thought to send out any.

Having lived off of prison rations for most of a week, Dean was already famished, so when Castiel decided that they would just have to ride to the next town and pick up food there, Dean’s stomach growled in protest.

“How far exactly is this town?” Dean asked on behalf of his stomach.

Castiel hesitated. “It’s a two hour ride,” he admitted.

Dean jumped up from where he had been sitting on stump. “Two hours? There’s got to be a better solution. What if we just go back? We passed some kind of village only half an hour ago. Or maybe some other travellers will have some food we can buy? Or—”

“Enough,” Castiel said sternly. “We’re not going back and we’re not waiting for a traveller with extra food who may never come.”

“What about this, Lord Castiel?” Dean and Castiel both turned their heads to Benjamin who was standing there holding a bow and a quiver of arrows. Dean recalled that he had seen them strapped to the man’s saddle but hadn’t thought anything of it, until now.

Castiel ran a hand through his hair in a rare outward sign of frustration. “I suppose I could see if I can hunt something down quickly. I have no idea what kind of game is nearby though.”

It seemed that the weapon belonged to Castiel. Surprises, surprises.

“I can help,” Dean offered magnanimously.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ve hunted my whole life. I can help you.”

“I am a perfectly capable hunter, thank you very much.”

“Oh?” Dean cocked his head. “What kind of hunting have you done?”

“Deer. Fox.”

“Right. With hounds, I bet?”

“Uh, yes,” Castiel admitted.

Dean snorted. “Unfortunately for you, what we need right now isn’t a huge buck that we would then have to either haul off on our horses or leave for scavengers. We also don’t need a gamey fox.”

Castiel frowned and crossed his arms. “What do we need then, oh wise hunter?”

“Three fat rabbits would be perfect, or perhaps a pheasant or some quail. Something that we can cook relatively quickly and be on our way.”

Castiel was silent.

Dean stared him down.

Castiel relented. “Fine, but you will only be coming in an advisor capacity only and will _not_ have a weapon.”

“Awesome.”

“Perfect.”

That decided, Castiel headed to the horses, causing Dean to chuckle heartily.

Castiel whirled around, clearly affronted.

Dean explained quickly. “In order to track and catch small game without dogs, we’ll need to travel on foot.”

The man deflated, his pique gone, and the sight had Dean feeling sorry that he had laughed. Castiel was clearly a man under a lot of stress, trying to make the best of a crappy situation.

So Dean kept his mouth shut as Castiel gathered what they needed for their hunt.

Before they entered the patch of woods, Dean tried to convince Castiel to remove his shackles.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But the chain,” Dean insisted. “It’s going to jangle and scare off the prey.”

Castiel re-evaluated his refusal. “Benjamin, can you fetch me a blanket from my saddle bag?”

Benjamin brought one over and Castiel proceeded to wrap it around the cuffs and chain. “Good enough?”

“I supposed it will have to do,” Dean groused.

Castiel took the bow and quiver, and they set off, leaving Benjamin to get a fire going.

“Keep an eye out for possible rabbit holes,” Dean instructed. After that, they walked side by side in a surprisingly companionable silence. The only sounds were the wind rustling the tree branches and their boots crunching on the snow.

“Is this going to be a story you tell your kids? Hunting with a prisoner?” Dean asked after a little while.

“I guess it depends on how this whole disaster turns out,” Castiel answered.

Dean winced. He really couldn’t see it ending well. He hoped it would, but… Well, both their luck would have to be pretty great.

“What makes you think that I’ll have kids?”

Dean shrugged. “You seem like you would make a good father.”

Castiel looked at him curiously. “You’ve only known me for five days.”

“Only five? It feels longer than that. Are you sure?” That earned him a chuckle. “But seriously, look at the lengths you’re going to for your brothers and nephew.”

It was Castiel’s turn to shrug. “They’re family and I love them. I might hate them sometimes, but I also love them.”

“Isn’t that the first criteria to being a good father?”

Castiel stayed silent, seemingly lost in thought.

Dean continued. “I kind of raised a kid. A boy. I mean, he’s not really mine, but I took care of him from when he was a baby. His mom had died. And I just… I just took him in.”

Castiel smiled, and Dean’s heart warmed. “That’s amazing, Dean. How old is he now?”

Dean scratched the back of his neck, feeling embarrassed. “Oh, he’s an adult now.”

Castiel blinked. “You must have been very young when you took him in.”

Dean chuckled. “Eighteen. Best decision I ever made.” Dean took a breath. “My dad… I mean, he loved my brother and I, but after our mom died, he was… preoccupied most of the time. For good reason. But it meant he wasn’t always around, or as… dad-like as we might have wished. I... I didn’t want to be like that, and with Jack, I was able to prove that I didn’t have to be. And I got to watch him grow. Become his own man.”

“You must have been an amazing father to him.”

Dean gaze shot up to see Castiel looking at him with honesty in his eyes.

“How can you know that? Like you said yourself, we barely know each other.”

Castiel smiled softly. “Because you’re fierce and independent and don’t take shit from anyone, and I’m sure any kid of yours would be just fine and would grow up to be just like you.”

Dean stared at the other man blankly for a full two seconds before bursting out in side-splitting laughter. Castiel grinned and ended up chuckling along.

“I think you’ve scared away all the game.”

Dean laughed even more at that.

When they both finally calmed down and caught their breath enough to speak again, Castiel spoke. “I also grew up without my mother. She died giving birth to me.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been tough,” Dean said sincerely.

“I’m not looking for sympathy, simply… returning the favour of one story with other.”

Dean nodded, listening intently.

Castiel continued. “As you probably know, my father, the King before Michael, the first king… He was… gone by the time I was nine.”

“I heard it was a heart attack?”

Castiel nodded, though his expression as he did so was odd. “My older half-brother, Zachariah, had died just a month before—an accident—and I think that was the last straw. After that, Michael essentially raised the youngest of us—Gabriel, Metatron, Naomi and myself—or at least he instructed the palace staff how to raise us. I, too, do not want to be like my father. Nor like Michael. I want to be… myself, and any child I raise will be raised my way.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Well, raised my way and the way my… partner would want to raise him or her. We’d come to a compromise,” he amended.

Dean lips quirked. “I’m sure you will.”

“How did we get on this topic again? It’s quite depressing and not one I expected to be having with you of all people. No offense.”

“None taken. And I’m pretty sure I brought up the subject of kids and then proceeded to ramble on about my messed-up family.”

“Ah. Your family’s messed-up-ness has nothing on mine.”

“Possibly true,” Dean said agreeably.

It seemed like he just couldn’t stop talking, because a few minutes later, Dean spoke again. He would blame it on having been in a cell with no one to talk to for the better part of a week.

“I am sorry about your brothers and nephew. I honestly wish I could help you, but I really had nothing to do with their disappearance.”

Castiel sighed heavily, looking up at the beams of sunlight streaking through the canopy. “I think I believe you,” he admitted.

Dean stared at the other man in shock as Castiel’s head tilted back down and his ocean blue eyes met his own.

“But unfortunately you and whatever you are hiding are my only remaining leads,” Castiel added.

“Hiding?”

“Exactly,” Castiel said, and Dean realized that his eyes had slanted down to the underbrush. He used to be much better at lying, but there was something about Castiel that had him wanting to be honest.

“My secrets have nothing to do with what happened,” he insisted.

“Secrets? As in more than one?”

Dean grinned wickedly. “A man always has to have a few.”

Castiel looked bemused. “You really are sticking to the depressing topics today.”

Dean groaned. “I shall endeavour to find other topics to amuse you, your lordliness.”

“I look forward to it.”

And they continued to banter back and forth, Dean always being careful about what he was revealing in the stories he shared.

About twenty minutes after they had started, Castiel spotted a rabbit hole, and Dean revealed his plan of attack.

“I’ll flush out the rabbit by stomping over its warren. You’ll take it down with an arrow. Then we’ll find another rabbit hole, rinse and repeat.”

Using Dean’s strategy, Castiel took the rabbit down with one shot. It didn’t take them long to find the second warren after that, this time with two rabbits hiding within.

Even still, Castiel shot two arrows in quick succession to successfully killing both rabbits.

When Dean returned after fetching the bodies, he looked impressed.

Castiel shrugged off Dean’s admiration. “I am used to shooting from the back of a galloping horse. This was nothing.”

They returned to a roaring fire, skinned and cooked the rabbits, put out the fire, and left with a quick efficiency. They ate the sizzling rabbits, still piping hot and dripping fat, as they rode.

Hours passed with little change in terrain. Then, as the sun sunk lower in the sky, Dean realized that he could smell the ocean. He breathed it in deeply, remembering home and trips with Sam to the seaside as children on the opposite side of the continent.

They turned a bend, and a sprawling estate was suddenly revealed at the end of a gravelled path lined with full, large trees that were sure to be a vibrant green in the summer. A huge field of white snow surely hide what would become an equally emerald expanse of well-manicured grass.

It was the definition of picturesque. If Dean opened up one of the dictionaries in Sam’s library and looked up the work picturesque, it would show a picture of this estate.

On either side of the estate, however, Dean could also see high hedges, topped with more snow, just barely disguising a medley of tall trees in what must be garden similar to the one Dean had attempted to escape through back at the palace.

A short distance behind the estate, the field disappeared in a steep cliff dropping down to the sea below. The ocean breeze blew in strong from that direction and the blue, unfrozen salt water sparkled in the late afternoon sun that dipped towards it.

“It’s good to be home,” Benjamin sighed.

Castiel looked sheepish. “My apologies, I had not expected us to be kept away for so long.”

Benjamin turned soft eyes on Castiel. “No apologies required. The events of the past week have hardly been your fault and staying was unavoidable. I am merely glad to be home.”

“I agree,” Castiel responded with a serene expression on his face, the first one of its kind that Dean had seen on his face.

The three of them rode up to the front of the main house as man and a woman rushed out.

“Lord Castiel!” the woman called.

Castiel dismounted. “Mirabel. Ishim. I hope you’ve been well since I left.”

“Of course, my lord,” Ishim replied stoically.

Mirabel scrutinized Dean, not missing his iron cuffs. “And who might… this man be?”

“Ah, this man will be staying here until further notice. It is best that you and the others don’t ask too many question, for your own safety.”

The pair didn’t seem pleased by this answer.

Castiel turned his attention to Dean. “Mirabel is my housekeeper and Ishim is my butler. That man over there—” Dean turned his head to see a third man coming around the side of the house with two younger boys trailing behind him. “That is my stable master, Akobel.”

While the stable master and two stablehands took their horses (with Dean’s warning about Baby), Dean noticed Ishim and Mirabel both giving him hard looks and exchanging a look between themselves that made it clear that they didn’t like him.

Castiel placed a firm hand on Dean’s upper arm and led him past the servants into the house.

Dean didn’t put up a fuss or try to make a break for it. He was too curious about all of this, besides the fact that he also had absolutely no clue where he was.

Although he did know that he could probably simply head east and he would eventually hit the Aqualis River, he also knew that by the time he commandeered a boat or located the one bridge across the river, Castiel and his men would be upon him.

At that moment, they reached their destination and the two of them entered the bedroom—_Castiel’s_ bedroom, as the man himself explained.

Dean observed that, for a lord of royal blood, Castiel’s bedroom was fairly standard, not over the top in any way. All the furnishings were sturdy and of a good make, but stylishly simple, favouring the beauty of pure raw wood over elaborate engravings, stains, and paint.

A housemaid followed them into the room, along with one of the stablehands carrying Castiel’s bags. The housemaid, a fair woman not much younger than themselves, appeared to be distracted by Dean’s presence before snapping herself out of it and focusing solely on Castiel, ignoring Dean.

“Would you like a bath drawn before dinner, Lord Castiel?” she asked demurely.

Castiel glanced over at Dean, filthy and caked with dungeon grime and road dirt. There might also have even been some stray blood stains from helping Castiel skin the rabbits.

“I don’t know about Cas, here, but I’d love a bath,” Dean said with his cheekiest grin.

The maid shot him a dirty look, the refocused on Castiel.

“Thank you, Rachel. Please draw the bath, but also heat up some extra water and bring up the wash basin. And could you please have a fire started?”

Rachel’s benign smile soured, but she left to do as she was bid.

Once she was gone, Castiel rummaged through his bags and withdrew a long length of thick chain, as well as a pair of leather cuffs with rings attached to them and a short chain connecting them.

“Where on earth did you get those?”

“I… had Benjamin purchase them from an acquaintance. They should suffice for this purpose.”

“Let me guess…” Dean held up his arms, chain clanging between his wrists.

Without further delay, Castiel looped one end of the long chain over one of the exposed beams that criss-crossed his ceiling.

Dean suddenly had the urge to bolt. Was he really about to let himself be chained up again?

His tenseness didn’t go unnoticed by Castiel. “It’s better than the dungeon,” he softly.

“Right…” Dean was starting to seriously reconsider his willingness to remain Castiel’s prisoner here simply out of curiosity (and lack of anywhere else to go), but even still, he obediently walked over to the man when he beckoned.

He allowed Castiel to remove his shackles and to fasten the leather cuffs to his wrists instead, attaching them to either end of the long chain with additional locks. Dean had to admit that the leather was a thousand times more forgiving than the iron.

The moment Castiel was done securing him, Dean pulled at the restraints, testing them: they held firm.

Thankfully, the chain was long enough that Dean could move around fairly freely, even lay down should he need to sleep.

By pulling the chain along the beam, moving parallel with it, Dean could even approach the bed, nearly close enough to touch it, before being stopped by a perpendicular beam.

The door into the room, however, was on the other side and nowhere near Dean’s reach.

Castiel watched him testing all of this with an unreadable expression. Dean was certain that Castiel was visually searching for any weak spots in the set-up, just as surely as Dean was physically testing for them.

In the end, Castiel seemed to determine that everything was satisfactory, because he abruptly turned and strode out of the room.

“Hey!” Dean called after him. “Where are you going? You can’t just leave. I need—”

He was gone. Dean huffed and moved to examine the window, which was easily within reach. Unfortunately, this side of the house overlooked the cliff—a nice view, but a deadly drop for one looking to escape.

Thankfully, Dean didn’t have very long to wait before Castiel returned. Which was probably a good thing for Castiel, because Dean had a tendency to get into mischief when he got bored.

Castiel was pulling a mattress with him. Not as large as the one on the bed, but still a thousand times better than the lumpy, moldy straw pallet the dungeon had to offer.

All in all, Dean had definitely traded up with this turn of events.

Dean took the opportunity to admire Castiel’s lean yet visibly muscular biceps, triceps, and back through his shirt as it stretched taut while he strained to position the mattress on the floor, tucked up against the wall where Dean’s beam disappeared into the next room. In other words, a spot where Dean would have no trouble lying down to sleep.

Then Castiel turned on him with a stern look. He pointed a finger at the clean mattress. “Stay off until you’ve been washed.”

Then he left again.

Unwilling to dirty the mattress because he wasn’t a complete heathen, Dean obeyed, even though it did look oh so inviting.

A short while later, Rachel the housemaid returned with two of her fellow housemaids, carrying a large basin, pitchers of steaming water, a bar of soap, a wash cloth and a towel. A manservant followed with an armful of logs and kindling.

Rachel gave Dean’s mattress the stink eye, deposited the basin in the center of the room and promptly left the other two to fill it.

The second they were all done their tasks, Dean strolled over, kicking off his boots in the process.

He dipped his toes in the water and smiled—it was perfectly scalding.

After gathering up spare sheets, a blanket and a pillow, Castiel immediately returned to his room. Upon entering, he noted that the basin and bath water had been provided and the fire was roaring.

Dean, in fact, was already toeing at the steaming water, a blissful grin on his face.

“I see you’ve already gotten started.” Castiel placed the bedding on top of the mattress.

“So warm…” Dean moaned, eyes closed.

“I’ll give you some privacy to get clean. Don’t try anything. My staff has been instructed not to let you leave, and I’ll be right next door.”

Right next door, soaking in his own full-sized tub, which he had been looking forward to since… Well, since he had left for Granamar. He intended to stay in the heated water until he pruned up and his muscles turned to mush. It was going to be glorious.

He turned to leave, anxious to get started, when a metallic rattle stopped him. Dean had shifted his chains.

“Um, a little help here first?” Dean said. Castiel looked back to see him holding up his cuffed wrists with their chains, the short one restraining Dean’s movements and the long one looping over the beam. “How am I supposed to bathe myself when I can’t even remove my own clothing?”

Castiel didn’t move.

“Unless you want me to just rip my shirt off—which I’m not opposed to, but doing that would leave me shirtless afterward, and that might make things a little awkward for you.”

Still hadn’t moved.

“Not to mention a little drafty for my nipples.”

Castiel desperately tried not a picture a half-naked Dean, tatters of shirt hanging from his body, with perky nipples and chained up in his bedroom. Did he mention his perky nipples? His brain might have short-circuited briefly.

The chains were shaken again in the face of Castiel’s silence. “Castiel? You still in there?”

He roused himself, grumbling, “Okay, okay.” Then, from around his neck, he pulled out a chain, on which he had stored the keys to Dean’s cuffs and the locks holding the chains to them.

Moving slowly, he walked up to Dean, alert for any potential tricks. But Dean remained still and cooperative.

Castiel grasped Dean’s arm to steady it, feeling the muscles underneath tense and then relax.

One cuff, unlocked.

He released Dean’s arm so that Dean could pull the grey shirt off of it.

When Dean held the same arm back out again, Castiel couldn’t help the fingers that ran gently down the red marks there, almost apologetically, as he took hold of it. He refastened the leather cuff, hiding the marks once again.

The same sequence was repeated for the other arm. That way, Dean was still attached to the chain and beam by at least one arm at all times.

And then Dean was standing shirtless before him—again. It was the dungeon scene all over again, except this time Dean wasn’t sweaty. In fact, he looked chilled, with his skin goose-pimpled and, yes, perky nipples. There were also no bars between them. And they were standing really close. Oh, and they were in his bedroom.

But otherwise, exactly the same.

Castiel wanted to warm Dean up himself.

“You do realize that I also can’t wash myself properly like this? How am I supposed to reach my back?” Dean questioned. He turned from one side to the other, stretching his arm and abdominal muscles taut to demonstrate how the short chain between his cuffs limited his range of motion.

Castiel swallowed. He couldn’t trust Dean alone with only one hand fastened. He could barely trust him alone with _both _hands secured. And he couldn’t willingly risk his staff by making _them_ bathe Dean, so, in the end, it would have to be him.

Yes, he had no other choice.

He licked his suddenly dry lips.

In as uninflected a voice as he could possibly muster, Castiel said, “Finish stripping and get in the basin.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question the command.

With as much confidence as earlier that morning, Dean shucked his pants in front of Castiel for the second time that day.

_Clearly_, Castiel thought. _He knows that he is gorgeous._

This time, Castiel didn’t avert his eyes at all. Dean was distracted trying to get his pants unhooked from his feet without tangling himself in the chain, so Castiel took full advantage of the opportunity to admire Dean’s body.

If Dean hadn’t wanted him to look, he would have asked him to look away as Castiel had done before, or he could have simply turned away himself.

Castiel’s eyes tracked the various scars that had been revealed to him briefly that morning, now more visible in the daylight. The scars were not surprising—a knight’s life was hard. In fact, Castiel was surprised there were so few.

Under normal circumstances, Castiel would take that as a sign that a knight had not seen much of battle yet, but given what he had already seen of Dean’s physical prowess and ingenuity, he was inclined to believe that the lack spoke more of Dean’s superior abilities than any limited experience.

The other thing that Castiel could see better in the daylight was his charming scattering of freckles.

What drew his attention the most, however, was the tattoo. From one of his books, Castiel recognized it as a sigil of protection used by the most advanced in Mortaleigh’s physical Magick. It was proof of what Castiel had already suspected from seeing Dean’s abilities first hand. He was obviously higher up on Mortaleigh’s ranks than he had first appeared.

Michael had already notified the King of Mortaleigh that they had one of his knights in their possession, but no response had been forthcoming. Or at least none that Michael had informed Castiel of.

Perhaps it would be worth it for him to send a letter himself to the King regarding Dean’s capture and the accusations against him. Particularly if Dean really was more than what he claimed. Because if Dean was a nobleman and was found guilty in the end, and Calistamar executed a member of Mortaleigh’s court without notifying their King, there would be trouble. So a second letter would make doubly sure that at least one reached the King, if the other was waylaid.

As Castiel returned from his thoughts, Dean had finished removing his riding breeches and was stepping delicately into the water, giving Castiel a full view from behind.

Castiel purposefully avoided thinking about Dean’s lower parts, except to objectively observe that he was as sturdily and well-proportionally formed lower down as the rest of his toned body.

_Completely objective. _

Castiel tore his gaze upward.

The final thing that came to Castiel’s attention were those thick, black leather bands on each of Dean’s upper biceps that he had noticed earlier.

“Are you not going to remove those as well?” Castiel asked, curious.

He saw Dean’s shoulder muscles tense, as the man remained facing away from him.

“They stay,” he stated firmly.

Now Castiel was really curious. He let it go, however. There was time enough to find out the significance of the bands later.

Castiel grabbed the wash cloth as Dean turned and sat down in the water. At first grimacing, and then sighing in relief.

He pouted internally, thinking of his own bath waiting for him and probably starting to cool. Then he moved around Dean and knelt on the floor, just behind the basin. He dunked the cloth in the hot water, lathered it with the bar of soap, and brought the sudsy cloth to Dean’s tanned skin.

Beginning to scrub, Castiel heard Dean moan softly in appreciation.

Castiel swallowed again, ignoring Dean’s vocalizations.

Some of the grime on the back of Dean’s neck where the skin had been exposed was being quite stubborn, so Castiel focused on that until he heard something he couldn’t ignore.

“Hm… yes, right there. Harder.”

Castiel froze, nearly dropping the cloth. “What?”

Dean huffed. “If you’re going to give me a massage, do it _harder_.”

“I—I am _not_ your personal masseuse,” Castiel grumbled, frustrated at himself and at Dean simultaneously.

Just then, Dean turned his head and grinned wickedly at him. “Do you want to be?”

Castiel gaped at him. Then he narrowed his eyes.

He slapped the cloth back onto Dean’s back, making Dean yelp, then proceeded to give him the quickest, roughest, and most perfunctory wash he could manage. Then he dumped the cloth in the basin and stormed out to the sound of Dean yelling, “Hey! Wait!”

Secluded away in his own bathroom, Castiel finally lowered himself into his own tub. The water had indeed unfortunately lost some of its heat and was starting to approach lukewarm, but Castiel was furious enough as it was to even bring himself to care about that inconvenience.

“So cocky…” Castiel muttered to himself. “He’s supposed to be the prisoner here. Supposed to know his place.”

But that had never been the case with Dean. Not even in the beginning. Right from the start Dean had never compromised his personality, undeterred by his circumstances.

Always a smart-ass, talking back when he would have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

Always brave, despite being locked in a dungeon and facing charges that could mean his life. Never giving up hope and falling into despair like many would have by this point.

Castiel sighed. He’d only been soaking for about a minute, but already he knew that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his bath.

His mind was back in his bedroom with his captive.

So he just cleaned himself nearly as quickly as he had washed Dean’s back, got out, dried off, and dressed in fresh clothing. Feeling human again, he headed back to his room.

He didn’t make it past the threshold, stopping to take in the sight playing out before him.

Dean Winchester on his hands and knees.

Dean Winchester _naked_ on his hands and knees.

Dean Winchester naked on his hands and knees, trying to mop up water from his bedroom floor with an already soaked towel.

And there was water _everywhere_.

Dean’s face turned to him with a panicked expression. “I swear, this is not my fault.”

Castiel sucked in a breath, literally on the edge of exploding. In anger. In lust. In absolute frustration. He had no idea.

“Excuse me,” a female voice said demurely behind him. “Dinner is ready, my Lord.”

He blew out the breath he had been holding, deflated. Castiel glanced over his shoulder to see Rachel standing there, trying to see past his shoulders with wide eyes.

Castiel turned to her fully, blocking her view in the process.

“One moment,” he said, backing into the room. Then he shut the door, gently, in her face.

He spun back around to face his tormentor.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Dean stood, abandoning the dripping towel. “These chains.” He jangled them for good measure as if Castiel wasn’t fully aware of their presence. “They have me off balance. Not by much, but enough that, well, I slipped. And I sort of knocked the basin over in the process.” Dean scrubbed the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a sheepish boy about to be chided for misbehaving.

Except for the fact that he was still naked and very obviously a full-grown man.

Castiel ran a hand down his face. He was going to regret bringing Dean here, wasn’t he?

He turned and opened the door.

“Please see that this mess is cleaned up and that the captive is provided with another towel and fresh clothing,” he instructed Rachel, who was still standing there, waiting.

She curtseyed. “Yes, my Lord. Right away.”

He stepped aside to let Rachel in, heard her exclaim, “Oh my…” and left.

After dinner, Castiel took Jimmy out for a ride in the post-twilight gloom to clear his head. He stuck to the trails, letting the bitter cold and salty wind numb his body, while the two glasses of port he’d had at dinner combined with the familiarity of riding temporarily soothed his mind.

At some point, his mind had shifted to thinking of an action plan, and he ended up staying out much longer than he had originally intended trying to get it in order.

By the time he returned to the house, it was fully dark and getting late, though the moon was bright, giving him decent enough visibility to see where he was going.

After stabling Jimmy, leaving him in the care of the stablehands, Castiel entered through the kitchen. He picked up some leftover roast beef, potatoes, corn bread, and a bit of pudding. The beef was fragrant with savoury spices and the rich chocolate of the dessert looked decadent.

He carried the platter of food upstairs to his room where he found Dean already fast asleep on his mattress.

Either one of the servants must have made the bed, or Dean had done it himself.

From what he could see around the blankets, Dean was only wearing a pair of Castiel’s own pants. They were a just slightly too short for him and a little too tight in the thighs. But overall, not a terrible fit.

One of Castiel’s shirts was folded neatly beside the mattress. That was when Castiel realized that Dean wouldn’t have been able to put on a fresh shirt due to the cuffs—the keys to which were hanging around Castiel’s neck. Guilt pinched at his heart.

Castiel approached with the food. As he did, Dean’s eyes opened and blinked sleepily up at him. It took him a moment, but then Dean seemed to realize where he was and who Castiel was, at which point he quickly sat up.

Wordlessly, he handed Dean the platter.

Dean zeroed in on the food with intense focus. “You’re my hero,” he said, then immediately began devouring the meal.

While Dean ate, Castiel sat on the edge of Dean’s mattress, waiting for the other man to finish.

When everything except the dessert was gone, Dean poked at the pudding.

“No pie?” he said sadly.

Castiel frowned, confused. “No.”

He sighed, but ate the pudding nonetheless.

Once no crumb remained, Castiel took the platter back, brought it out to the hall and set it on the floor just outside the door for a servant to clear away during the night.

As he stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him, he drew out the keys for the cuffs.

Repeating the actions of earlier, he and Dean got him into the shirt without having to say a word. Their movements were easy, almost as if they had coordinated them without speaking.

Dean could have accused or teased him about neglecting the needs of his captive—being late with dinner and not allowing him proper clothing—but he didn’t, for which Castiel was grateful.

Perhaps they were both just tired.

With his prisoner properly bathed, fed and dress, Castiel yawned, stood and stretched. Then he shuffled off to his own bed, footsteps heavy.

As he climbed into bed, he heard Dean softly say, “Thank you. This whole situation could have turned out a whole lot worse for me, so thank you.”

Castiel wasn’t so sure that it wouldn’t still get worse. His mind reflected on the ‘extra help’ that Michael had promised to send.

“I’m just doing my duty,” he said, trying to brush off Dean’s thanks.

With that, he shut off the oil lamp left burning on his nightstand by a servant, effectively ending the conversation.

The glow from the fireplace backlit his dreams that flickered between glistening bodies entwined in passion, and men and women writhing in the flames of war.


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Dean’s eyes fluttered open as a myriad of marvelous scents entered his nose, sending hunger pangs directly to his stomach despite his late dinner the night before.

Castiel was already awake and dressed, sitting casually on the edge of Dean’s mattress, a platter of food balanced on his knees.

“Breakfast,” he said by way of explanation.

Dean grinned, reaching out for the platter piled high with fluffy eggs, still sizzling bacon, and steaming rolls slathered in butter and zesty marmalade. There was also a pitcher of water and a cup of hot tea. Breakfast fit for a king.

“I can see that,” Dean said, digging in.

Leaving Dean to his food, Castiel returned to his own bed, picking up a book from his nightstand and starting to read.

His mouth full of bacon, Dean said, “You don’t have to stick around to keep me company.”

Castiel’s eyes rose over the top of his book. “On the contrary, I have a full day planned for us. I am simply waiting for you to finish your meal.”

“Huh.” Dean ate some more of the eggs. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that,” Castiel said vaguely. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Well, you know how much I love surprises,” Dean replied cheekily. He wondered what Castiel could possibly have planned during the night and what he expected him to do, as chained up as he was.

Rachel the housemaid dropped in just as Dean was finishing the last of his tea. She collected his dishes with narrowed eyes for him and a bright smile for Castiel.

Dean simply grinned at her, amused by her obvious jealousy for Castiel’s attention.

The moment she was gone, however, Dean found himself under the full force of that very same attention Rachel had so desired.

Castiel had deposited his book back on his nightstand, walked over, and was kneeling directly in front of where Dean sat on his mattress before the door had even fully closed.

His face was stoic and serious. “I’m going to tell you what I’m about to do so that you don’t resist, because it will be easier for us both if you don’t.”

Intrigued, Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“I am going to look into your memories,” he said, and Dean tensed. “Hopefully starting with the celebration and then working backward from there.”

_This isn’t good. Not good at all._

Dean asked, “Do I get a choice in this?”

“No.”

“How was this a surprise?”

“I never said it was a good surprise.”

Dean huffed, eyeing Castiel’s hands warily. He knew the basics of how Grace worked (a process quite similar to Mortaleigh’s Magick, he had been told), and he easily remembered how those same hands had knocked him out with one touch outside the walls of Granamar. And yet, other than that one time, those hands had been nothing but gentle.

Despite saying that Dean didn’t have a choice in this, Castiel still seemed to be waiting for a response from him.

Dean sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t resist.” He would just have to be vigilant that Castiel didn’t gain access to any… more revealing memories. They wouldn’t be what he was looking for anyway, so with luck, they would be easy enough to avoid.

Castiel’s hands rose until they were level with his face and then gently grasped his head, thumbs at his temples and fingers curling around to the base of his neck. Castiel closed his eyes.

A blue-white glow arose at the edges of his vision before Dean tumbled backward into his own mind.

At first he was falling through an endless blackness, dark and empty. Knowing that Castiel would be searching, he quickly willed his mind toward his more benign memories of Ashbourne, Mortaleigh’s’ capital and most populated city.

The first memory that popped up was a childhood memory of himself and Sam at the ages of sixteen and twelve, respectively. They were racing down a street, laughing, having just set all the bells in the belfry ringing in a cacophony that echoed across the city.

Castiel almost immediately flipped the switch on that memory, pulling Dean’s mind further into the future. Dean managed to subtly pause it at a period of time only, perhaps, a decade ago. Looking somewhat younger, less weather-worn, Dean himself was showing a group of pre-teen children how to properly wield a sword. One of these children was a boy named Jack, Dean’s adopted son. Castiel lingered here briefly, giving Dean an opportunity to reflect on how he had raised Jack over the years.

Though taking in a newborn at eighteen had been the toughest thing Dean had ever done (not to mention having literally just fully taken the reigns of the kingdom from his father), taking Jack under his wing had been one of the highlights of his life.

Jack, now in his early twenties, had since moved out and started his own life, but Dean still saw him regularly whenever he visited or when he and Sam went to see him.

After watching Dean and Jack interact for a few moments more, Castiel moved on, dredging up more and more old memories, often nearly forgotten. All the images of his home were making Dean feel homesick for his kingdom, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Sam was managing without him.

Although, if he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that Sam was probably doing a better job at ruling than he often did. Perhaps he should let himself get captured more often so that Sam could do all the tedious tasks for him.

As Castiel flipped back and forth between memories, Dean worked hard to ensure he avoided all memories with his father, who Castiel could very well recognize from the time John had ruled as Dean’s regent, as well as memories of Dean actually presiding as King. He had been tremendously lucky so far that Cas had not met him as the King of Mortaleigh recently and that Michael had never taken it upon himself to come down to the dungeon.

He could feel Castiel’s rising frustration through their linked minds at not being able to find anything useful as pertained to his family members’ disappearance. He also seemed slightly shaken by the memories he had seen. Perhaps because they showed a side of Dean that Castiel had been trying to disassociate from his prisoner before.

But Dean had a family and a history, just as Castiel did. And now he had seen it firsthand.

Apparently still determined, Castiel dove back in for another try. With renewed vigor, he sought out and retrieved Dean’s memories from the day of the celebration. Dean couldn’t do anything to stop him without actively resisting, which would only demonstrate to Castiel that he really did have something to hide.

Dean was on horseback, travelling down a road with the Wayward Sisters, obviously on their way to Calistamar.

“Come on, Dean. You can tell us,” Claire was saying. “We won’t say anything. Cross our hearts.” She moved her finger across her chest in an ‘x’.

_Fuck._ This was one of the worst possibly moments Castiel could have started with. Dean helplessly watched the scene play out.

“There’s nothing to tell,” past-Dean insisted.

“Really?” Donna said, eyebrow raised. “Not even Lisa? I thought you two had something special going on there once upon a time.”

Jody laughed. “Perhaps once, but Dean here has been leaning another way recently. Isn’t that right, Dean?”

The other women “ooooooh’ed.”

Dean watched his past self clear his throat. “It’s no secret. I’ve been… exploring my options,” past-Dean admitted.

The younger women grinned. “You owe me fifty coins,” Patience said to Alex.

Past-Dean sputtered. “You were taking bets?”

Claire smirked. “Of course. But back to the topic at hand… When are you going to find a wife or husband?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, young lady,” past-Dean hedged.

Jody spoke up. “You will need to get married at some point. The people—”

Castiel fast-forwarded.

The tension that had been building up in Dean released, just like that. Had Castiel waited just a few more seconds, he would have heard the women teasing him about making babies or just officially making Jack his heir for the sake of Mortaleigh and the lineage of the crown. Luck was with him, it seemed.

Instead, Castiel scanned through the rest of that day on a slight fast forward. Dean and the Wayward Sisters arriving in Granamar. Stabling Baby and the other horses. The group of them sneaking into the city. And finally, that walk toward the palace that had ended with them all under arrest.

When the scene with the guard began, Dean could feel Castiel’s sympathy through their mental link as he was beaten by the irate man prior to past-Castiel’s appearance.

When Castiel disconnected from his mind, Dean opened his eyes to see the other man frowning. Dean knew that Castiel had seen nothing incriminating on that replay. They hadn’t spoken with anyone besides the stablehands outside the city and—other than actually sneaking into the city—they had done nothing illegal. So Dean could only imagine the level of frustration Castiel must have been feeling in that moment.

“I’ll just have to try again. Go slower this time,” Castiel finally said.

Dean braced himself as Castiel reached out once more, but when his hands touched his face, nothing happened. He watched Castiel’s face crease in concentration, but something wasn’t working. He was sweating from the exertion and his face was draining of colour, getting paler by the second.

“Castiel,” Dean cautioned. “You should stop. Rest.”

He opened his eyes and wiped his brow, staring down at the traces of sweat that came off on his hand. “No,” he said. “I have to—have to keep trying.” His voice was breathy, as if he couldn’t quite get enough air.

He brought his hands up to Dean’s temples once more. Before Dean even had a chance to protest, however, they both cried out in pain.

Dean squinted through a sudden, intense headache, but focused on Castiel, who was clutching his head in obvious distress. His nose was bleeding as well.

“Dammit, Cas. I told you to stop,” admonished Dean. “Now you’ve gone and pushed yourself too far. We all have limits, you know. Grace or Magick, it’s all the same.”

Dean pulled out the handkerchief poking from Castiel’s pocket and held it to the man’s nose, trying to stem the flow of blood. Castiel had his eyes closed, his expression caught in a perpetual wince as he held his head in his hands.

Dean took one of those hands and moved it to the handkerchief so that Castiel was holding it in place. Then he removed the other hand and began gently, yet firmly, massaging Castiel’s temples.

Castiel shuddered and groaned at first, then leaned into Dean’s touch, likely half-unconsciously, his entire body tilting forward until his head practically rested on Dean’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” Dean murmured. “Relax and the pain should get easier.”

Dean shifted his hands so his thumbs were still massaging Castiel’s temples, while his fingers worked on the back of his neck, mimicking Castiel’s hold on him a minute ago. It was awkward due to the chains, but Dean managed.

After a minute or two, Castiel seemed to come back to himself and lifted his head. Dean let his hands drop as Castiel blinked dazed eyes at him and appeared to realize the position he was in, practically sitting in Dean’s lap.

Castiel abruptly pulled back, wincing at the sudden movement. He moved to stand.

“Wait, Cas—” Dean warned, but Castiel stood anyway, swaying on his feet.

Dean had only partially stood himself, when Castiel promptly slumped, unconscious. As his body fell toward the floor, Dean quickly caught him before his head could strike the wood.

“Silly, stubborn man,” Dean grumbled, gazing down at Castiel, his head and torso cradled in his arms. At least his face was clear of the pain from before.

Dean looked toward the unreachable closed door on the far side of the room and began to shout.

“Hey! Someone! Your Lord needs help!”

He continued shouting for a good ten minutes before the door finally opened. Rachel rushed in, took one good look at Castiel’s comatose body in Dean’s arms and narrowed her eyes.

“Rachel,” Dean began. “Castiel—”

But Rachel had already whipped back around and darted out of the room, yelling. “Help! Someone help! The prisoner has done something to Lord Castiel!”

“For fuck’s— Really?” Dean swore. “Get back here so I can explain!”

Dean was practically jittery with rage. He wouldn’t have been surprised if steam started billowing out of his ears. Oh, he was going to give Rachel a piece of his mind when she returned.

Re-focusing on Castiel, Dean managed to lay him down on his own mattress, where, if Dean didn’t know better, it looked like he had simply fallen asleep.

Just as he finished that task and stood, the two stablehands rushed in instead of Rachel, whom Dean had been expecting. Dean opened his mouth to explain, but without a word one of the stablehands immediately rushed up to him, and like a bull, slammed him against the wall.

Dean was too shocked by the action to fight back and before he could even protest, the other stablehand had pulled the chain tight, stretching Dean’s arms over his head. The man who was pinning him to the wall released him, while the other continued to pull the chain, until Dean was practically dangling from the beam at its closest point to the bed in the middle of the room, his feet barely resting on the floor.

Dean grunted as his arm muscles were forcibly pulled taut. “I didn’t do anything to him,” he said in his own defense. “He overused his Grace.”

But the stablehands ignored him. They fastened the chain to Castiel’s heavy, solid-wood bed, leaving Dean with absolutely no slack.

Thus restrained, Dean was forced to watch them collect Castiel from the mattress.

“Listen to me,” Dean said, trying to get them to see reason. “He just fell unconscious from using his Grace to see into my memories. That’s all. I didn’t do anything.”

Once again, he was ignored. His word, apparently, meant nothing here. Why was he even surprised? He was a captive here after all.

The two men glanced at Castiel’s bed and then at Dean, shared a look, and then proceeded to carry Castiel out of the bedroom.

“Wait,” Dean protested, but his voice was growing fainter as he gave up hope that they would even listen to him. “I swear, I didn’t do anything to him. It’s not my fault.”

The moment the men had left, Rachel entered.

She gave Dean a superior look. “It’s only justice after what you did to Lord Castiel and his family. You had too much freedom before. This is much better.”

“You little bitch.” Dean strained against his chains with all his might, making the bed creak and Rachel flinch. But, unfortunately, his Magick-fueled strength had yet to return since he had last used it in his previous escape attempts.

Rachel smirked smugly at him when he was unable to break free. Then she turned and headed back to the door.

“Wait,” Dean called, forcing his muscles to slacken. “At least tell me if he’s going to be okay.”

Without looking behind her, Rachel snorted and left, closing the door with a final click and leaving Dean alone.

When Castiel slowly drifted back to consciousness, it was to a mild headache. He groaned as he sat up, feeling groggy and slightly nauseous. A damp cloth dropped from his forehead.

He blinked as his surroundings gradually came into focus. The bed he was in felt unfamiliar and he came to the realization that he was in one of the spare bedrooms, rather than his own room. The fireplace held only ashes and the air in the room was chilly.

Had he been sick?

“Thank goodness, you’re awake,” a familiar female voice said beside him. Castiel turned his head to see Rachel sitting in a chair at his bedside. “Here,” she said, holding out a cup. “Drink this. It will help settle your stomach.”

Castiel accepted the cup and took a sip. It was an herbal tea, but lukewarm in temperature. Nonetheless, it did indeed help quell some of his nausea.

After he had drained it, he passed the cup back to Rachel.

“What happened?” He touched his head, which still ached sullenly.

Rachel turned sincere eyes on him. “The prisoner attacked you, but we were able to get to you in time and get you away from him.”

Castiel slowly shook his head through the residual pain. “No… That’s not—I think I remember. I was searching his memories and…” And he had pushed himself too hard, falling unconscious right in front of his prisoner.

Castiel’s eyes widened and his breathing quickened as he desperately groped at his neck. Amazingly, the chain with all its keys was still there.

“Dean—the prisoner, he’s still secure in my room?” Castiel questioned. _Please say ‘yes.’ Please say ‘yes.’_

Rachel nodded, her lips quirking up. “Oh, yes. Quite secure, I assure you.”

The sigh of relief that Castiel released just then was profound. Despite his blunder, all seemed well. Other than his headache, which he had done to himself, he was not injured in any way, Dean was still here, and no harm was done.

Relaxed now, Castiel rolled his shoulders. His body felt stiff, as if he had been lying in bed for a while. Glancing out the window, the sun was high in the sky so it must have been at least a few hours.

“How long was I out, exactly?” he asked, just to clarify.

“Three days.”

“Excuse me?” _No, no, no. That wasn’t possible._

Rachel wrung her hands together. “You were asleep for three days. We were all very worried. Mirabel nearly sent for the doctor.”

Castiel couldn’t believe it. He had lost three days because of his stupidity.

And in all that time, Dean hadn’t tried to escape again? If ever he was going to, the last few days would have been the perfect opportunity, with Castiel unable to chase after him.

“When was the last time someone checked on the prisoner?” Castiel demanded.

“Oh, um…” Rachel’s gaze shifted away. “I don’t know. I believe Mirabel told Akobel to instruct one of his stableboys to bring the prisoner food once a day.”

“But you haven’t been in my room recently?”

Rachel shook her head.

That was all Castiel needed to hear to force his weakened body out of bed. He stumbled as his knees partially gave way under his own weight, but managed to steady himself.

Then he half-ran, half-tripped down the hall to his room and threw open the door.

His first sight of Dean’s now familiar form had Castiel once again breathing a sigh of relief.

Then his eyes took in Dean’s state.

He looked so much worse than he had in the palace dungeon. In fact, the dungeon could have been a vacation compared to this.

Forced into a standing position by the chain, which was pulled as tight as it would go without actually lifting Dean off his feet, Dean hung in the center of Castiel’s bedroom, eyes closed and head lolling to the side.

There was a dark purple bruise marring Dean’s cheekbone. A combination of bodily fluids stained Dean’s clothing. And that was just what Castiel could see at first glance.

Surrounding that horrifying image were plates of spoiled food, untouched except by the flies buzzing around. Those plates sat alongside full glasses of water.

For a moment, all Castiel could do was stand there, shaking as the most intense fury he had ever felt before raged through him like a wildfire.

Then he took action.

“Get. Out.” He didn’t turn around, but he heard Rachel, who had followed him, hustling out of the room. A good thing, because Castiel didn’t know what he would have done just then if she had lingered.

He heard another set of footsteps in the hall pausing as Rachel scurried away. Moving quickly, he exited the room to see one of his other housemaids with an armful of laundry, staring at Rachel’s receding form.

“Hester,” Castiel snapped loudly. “Run a bath immediately. When you’ve done that, get food—plain food—and fresh water, and bring it to the first guest room. Then I want this room cleaned until it is spotless. Am I understood?”

Hester nodded nervously and rushed off to do as instructed, likely because Castiel had never snapped at his house servants like that before. But Castiel was not in the mood for civility right then.

When Castiel returned to his room a second later, Dean was blinking up at him, evidently having been awoken by the sound of his voice. Upon spying him, Dean’s cracked lips turned up in a small smile.

Castiel’s steps lost their rhythm. _Everything is going wrong,_ he thought. _This wasn’t part of my plan. I’m so sorry._

He marched over to where the chain was cruelly fastened to his bed, releasing it. Dean instantaneously slumped down onto the floor.

As Castiel rushed over, he pulled the chain of keys from around his neck. Unlocking the cuffs revealed raw, inflamed skin underneath. His hands had purpled from limited circulation, and Dean whimpered from the pain as proper blood flow was restored. Luckily, after examining them, Castiel was able to determine, to the best of his ability, that no permanent damage had been done to Dean’s hands.

If it had been otherwise…

Brusquely, Castiel stripped Dean of his soiled clothing, intending to burn it all at the first possible chance. That’s when he noticed an additional dark bruise on Dean’s muscled abdomen, right where a punch to the stomach would have landed.

Castiel had to pause to breathe through his rage.

He would find all those responsible for this and they would have to travel overseas to find work again. If he let them get that far.

Those tasks done, Castiel braced himself to gently lifted Dean’s abused body in his arms. His coma-weakened muscled protested but Castiel forced them to obey.

Dean himself was completely out of it. He drifted in and out of semi-consciousness, responding to some sounds, pain, and movement. But otherwise, he couldn’t seem to concentrate.

In his arms, Castiel could feel him sweating and trembling. He carried him out of that room and down the hall to his bathroom, where he found Hester still filling the bath.

It was only partially full, but Castiel slowly placed Dean in the steaming water all the same. Dean moaned, eyes still closed, as the water washed over his skin.

Holding Dean upright in the bath so he didn’t slip under the water, Castiel turned his attention to Hester.

“Fetch my stock of ointments and other medical supplies first, then continue with the other tasks I gave you.” She nodded and hurried off.

With the softest touch, Castiel proceeded to wash away all remnants of vomit and urine from Dean’s body until only the bruises and scars remained on his skin. That and the freckles, of course. Had Castiel not been so furious and worried in that moment, he could have fully appreciated them.

He also left the black leather bands on Dean’s upper biceps. They had escaped being soiled and the leather was easily wiped down, and so Castiel had no reason to remove them other than his own curiosity. He chose to respect Dean’s privacy. After all, the man was already otherwise naked before him, and after this mess, Castiel owed him. Big time.

Through all of Castiel’s ministrations, Dean had not fully awoken. In fact, he seemed to have actually fallen asleep, head cradled in the arm Castiel was using to support him.

Seeing that, Castiel realized the fact that, in addition to an obvious lack of food and water, Dean would not have been able to properly sleep for three days in the position he had been forced into by the very chains Castiel had put him in.

Fury. Rising.

Castiel shoved it down once more. For now.

Once Dean was clean, Castiel used his free hand to toss a clean towel onto the bathroom floor. Then he lifted Dean out of the water, struggling somewhat with his weight. In the end, he managed to place Dean on the towel and proceeded to dry him off while Dean’s body rested against his own.

It was awkward work, and Castiel’s clothes were soaked by the end of it, but he was unwilling to wake Dean, or to ask for assistance and let anyone else touch him at this point.

With Dean finally dry, Castiel picked him up for the final time, his own body trembling now, and carried him to the first guestroom, where one of his kitchen staff was laying out food on the side table. Castiel nodded at him to carry on.

After placing Dean with the utmost care on the bed despite his exhausted limbs screaming at him to just drop their burden, Castiel pulled the sheets over the lower half of his body since he was still naked from his bath.

Then Castiel observed what the servant was unveiling. The meal consisted of bread, water, cold slices of meat, and partially stewed carrots that had obviously been started for that night’s dinner. Plain fare, just as he had requested.

When the servant was finished, Castiel asked one question: “Who was responsible for bringing the captive his food while I was unavailable?”

“Josiah,” he replied.

Castiel nodded. “Thank you. Please have Josiah sent up. You are dismissed.”

The kitchen servant fled. Word had obviously gotten around of Castiel’s current temperament.

A couple of minutes later, after Castiel had gotten a fire burning to ward off the chill in the room, he was examining Dean’s injuries more closely as Hester returned with the medicine and bandages.

After silently delivering the supplies, Hester turned to leave.

Castiel spoke, “Wait. I will need your assistance.”

He was fairly certain that the blow to Dean’s stomach hadn’t caused any permanent damage, but since Dean had now been beaten twice in less than a fortnight, Castiel wasn’t taking any chances. And in order to properly bind Dean’s ribs, he would need help, despite how much he currently loathed letting anyone else near Dean.

Truly though, he was also to blame. He had been the one to blindly waste all his energy in the foolish belief that he would be able to extract pertinent information from Dean’s mind, to the point that he had fallen into a Grace-induced coma for _three days_.

Dean was _his_ responsibility. No one else’s. And look where Castiel’s care had gotten the man. Beaten and abused at the hands of his own servants.

Hester, at least, appeared to be trustworthy. He let her manipulate the bandage around Dean’s torso as he held him up so that she could pass the bandage underneath.

“Is that everything that you require of me?” Hester asked once the task was done.

Castiel hesitated, then removed the chain of keys from his neck. “Could you please unlock the chains in my room and bring the leather cuffs here?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Hester responded, taking the chain.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, already reaching for the jar of soothing ointment.

Hester bowed her head and departed.

Dean had still remained asleep throughout the entire process.

The ointment was spread around Dean’s severely chaffed wrists, the white cream clashing with the raw redness of the skin there. Then they too were wrapped in fresh bandages. At least his hands had returned to their normal hue, Castiel saw with relief.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Castiel ran a thumb delicately over Dean’s bruised cheek. Sadly, there wasn’t much he could do about that, except perhaps fetch Dean some ice when he woke up.

Speaking of waking up, Castiel knew that it was time he did so. Dean needed to eat and drink in order to properly recover.

“Dean,” Castiel called firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, wake up.”

Dean stirred, blinking heavily up at him. The fact that it took a good minute for recognition to enter his eyes, spoke of his utter exhaustion.

“Cas?” Dean groaned. His eyes fluttered shut again. It wasn’t the first time Dean had used the short form of his name, but it was first time that Castiel really took note of it and found that he liked it being said in Dean’s voice.

“Dean, stay awake. You have to eat.”

“Eat?” Dean murmured. Eyes cracked open. “Pie?”

Castiel laughed. Actually laughed.

Partially from amusement over the fact that Dean could be on the verge of death and still want pie, and partially in absolute relief that Dean’s indomitable spirit hadn’t been broken by his carelessness.

“No pie, I’m afraid,” Castiel admitted, smiling. “Let’s sit you up so you can eat some actual food.”

Dean pouted. “Pie is actual food.”

Castiel shook his head, chuckling. He reached out to help lift Dean so that he could lean against the headboard, but Dean flinched away from him.

The rejection stung, but Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised by it. Why would Dean want him near after all he’d been through since falling under his care? No reason whatsoever.

“I can sit myself up,” Dean protested, but Castiel knew stubbornness wasn’t the true reason.

Dean tried to hide his wince as he had to bend his stomach, but Castiel noticed that too. The rage that still simmered inside Castiel at a low boil rose once more.

“You will tell me everything that happened since I fell unconscious, but first you really need to eat and drink,” Castiel insisted. “However, this I will promise you here and now: it will _never_ happen again.”

Dean simply nodded, his face unreadable.

He handed Dean the water, making sure he drank at least a third of it, and then a plate of food, warning him to pace himself.

When Dean dove in ravenously nonetheless, Castiel had to take the plate away from him.

“Hey!” Dean cried out as the plate was removed. And for just a moment, he actually looked panicked. As if he expected Castiel to take the food away and let him starve again.

The look nearly had Castiel handing the plate back and letting Dean eat however fast he wanted. But his common sense argued that doing so would only make Dean sick from eating too fast.

“I told to you eat slowly,” Castiel chided. “Now you will have to eat at my pace.”

And so, Castiel spoon fed a pouting Dean, careful to keep his movements slow and steady.

“If you say, ‘here comes the birdie,’ I will murder you in your sleep.”

Castiel smiled and continued on without a word.

When most of the food was gone and Dean was leaning back, rubbing his somewhat bloated stomach and groaning, Castiel put the plate aside.

When he turned back to Dean, the man was gazing down at his bandaged wrists, a bewildered expression on his face. Castiel watched as Dean really took a look around the room.

“I’m not chained,” Dean said.

“No.”

“We’re not in your room.”

“No.”

Dean turned questioning eyes on him.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel breathed. He had no excuse. “Tell me what happened.”

Dean shrugged. Winced. “The housemaid, Rachel, saw you unconscious after we had been alone together, and then everyone seemed to come to the conclusion that I had made you that way. I mean, it was a conclusion not completely out of the realm of possibility.”

“But the bruises…” Castiel began, reaching a hand up to Dean’s cheek but letting it fall before it reached its destination.

“Ah, those.” Dean gave him a half-smirk, but his eyes were clouded. “Well, you know how personable I can be. The young man bringing my meals seemed to take offense to my witty sense of humour.”

“Don’t,” Castiel said. “Don’t brush it off. That should never have happened, and I take full responsibility for it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I can’t tell you that you’re not responsible for the actions of your servants. As their Lord, you already know that you are, at least in part. But I assume you also had no way of knowing they would act this way, or else you never would have hired them in the first place. After all, I doubt this situation is a common occurrence around here.”

“It’s really not,” Castiel admitted wryly.

Dean’s lips quirked. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t blame you.”

Castiel didn’t respond. Dean could say he didn’t blame him, but his reactions told a very different story.

Then his expression turned serious as he regarded Castiel.

_What else is he going to say?_ Castiel wondered.

But Dean didn’t say anything. With his now chain-free hand, Dean reached out.

Castiel froze and sucked in a breath, holding it in his chest. But he didn’t move to stop Dean from doing whatever he was about to do.

If Dean wanted to slap him, he could slap him.

If Dean wanted to punch him, he could punch him.

If Dean wanted to try to escape again, Castiel would still hunt him down, but he would understand.

For a second, his fingers paused in mid-air, but then they brushed Castiel’s jawline. They moved oh-so-slowly behind Castiel’s head until they were cupping the back of his neck, his thumb resting just below Castiel’s earlobe.

Castiel couldn’t look away from Dean’s eyes, steady and fixed on his own.

He let the slightest pressure from Dean’s hand guide his head forward. Dean was leaning forward too. And just like that, their lips touched and they were kissing.

It was the gentlest touch of lips—testing, curious, and yet uncertain—and it only lasted a few seconds before Dean was releasing him and pulling back.

But… Castiel immediately realized that he wasn’t ready for the kiss to end. Not when it was coming from the first person in a long time who had made his heart race—with frustration, with fury, with panic, and also with lust.

So before Dean could fully pull away, Castiel lifted his own hands, caught Dean’s head, and brought him back in for another. This time, Castiel took control of the kiss, tilting his own head for a better angle and kissing Dean firmly.

Dean grunted in surprise, but then wasted no time grabbing Castiel’s still-damp shirt and tugging him closer.

This only caused Castiel to grow bolder himself. He quested outward with his tongue, and Dean submitted obligingly, opening his mouth so that both their tongues could explore and conquer.

Dean nipped Castiel’s lower lip and then sucked it into his mouth soothingly.

Castiel moaned in response, his hands sliding down Dean’s bare back until they hit the swell of his ass. Dean shuddered under his touch, but didn’t let go.

And in that moment, Castiel abruptly recalled that Dean was naked, which caused him to remember _why_ Dean was naked and all that entailed. All of which had Castiel rearing back, breaking the kiss awkwardly.

He, Castiel Seraphon, had just been making out with Dean Winchester, the man who was supposedly his prisoner. What had he been thinking?

For his part, Dean’s expression turned from surprised, to confused, to hurt, to nothing at all in a few short seconds.

Castiel helplessly watched it happen while trying to ignore Dean’s well-kissed lips and the ache developing in his own chest.

Castiel began to speak, but the words died in his throat. What he had been going to say, he had no idea, but he was saved from finding out by the arrival of Hester with Josiah following closely behind. The very stablehand supposedly responsible for Dean’s ‘care’ while Castiel had been unconscious.

Hester was carrying the leather cuffs, chain, and also fresh clothing for Dean.

“Thank you, Hester,” Castiel said, rising from the bed and taking the cuffs and bundle of fabric from her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Dean staring at Josiah with a cold, hard gaze, but he did not seem otherwise traumatized despite his horrendous treatment at the servant’s hands.

Josiah stared back with absolute hate in his eyes.

Castiel said, “Josiah, you wait in the hallway. Hester, watch him.”

Alone again with Dean, Castiel felt like things had become awkward between them. Already, they were each avoiding looking one another in the eyes.

Why had Dean kissed him?

Had there been a reason to it? Or had he just felt like it?

Was he testing Castiel?

Castiel was so confused. He shook it off. Another item on the list of things to be dealt with later.

This next part Castiel really hated, but it had to be done.

“Dean, I… I have to lock you up again,” he admitted. “Dress first.” He handed over the clothing.

Dean’s entire body tensed, but he nodded without issuing a single word of protest.

He remained quiet as he dressed and while Castiel put the leather cuffs back in place, being extremely careful of Dean’s bandaged wrists and probably making them looser than he should have. During that process, Dean’s hands shook, despite the rigid set of his jaw indicating that he was trying hard to not let them.

Castiel secured the cuffs to the bed’s headboard with the long length of chain so that Dean could lie down or sit up as he pleased, or even get off the bed entirely and walk around the room.

Dean’s detached gaze just followed Castiel’s movements slowly through it all.

The moment that unwelcome task was done, Castiel practically ran out of the room.

Unwilling to deal with Josiah just then, with his own heart and mind in turmoil, he quickly banished the stablehand from his estate, then wrote a succinct letter informing the palace clerks of his actions and subsequent banishment so that they could send word out to all the families who hired servants. Josiah wouldn’t be finding work as a servant again any time soon.

Whether Castiel pursued further action against him remained to be seen, but for now, that would suffice.

Avoiding his responsibilities as a Lord, as well as Dean, Castiel took Jimmy and left on a ride. It was not nearly as clarifying as it had been the last time.

He returned shortly before dinnertime, as the sun was starting to dip lower, but only to make sure that Dean was being properly taken care of this time around.

When he approached the house, however, it was to find that he had a visitor.

Michael’s ‘help’ had arrived: Alastair, the Grand Torturer of Hellspyre.

_Earlier, shortly after Castiel departed…_

Dean lay awake in an actual bed, the first he had been in since almost two weeks ago. He should have been taking full advantage of that bed and sleeping, but all he could do was continually accuse himself of stupidity.

What in all of Liscalis had he been thinking? Kissing Castiel had to have been one of the most foolish things he had ever done—and he had done a number of foolish things in his life.

It had been an ‘in the moment’ kind of action. His only excuse was that he had been partially out of it with pain, extremely grateful not to be chained up anymore, and overwhelmed by half-remembered touches caring for him. And for the later, his body couldn’t seem to decide if it liked those touches or was absolutely terrified of them.

But, oh, had that kiss been worth it.

When Castiel had pulled him in for a real kiss—so much more than Dean’s little trial kiss—Dean had felt as if he had been doused in oil and lit on fire. His body had heated, his skin had sparked, and his brain had fried. It had reignited his soul after he had locked it away three days ago.

Despite the sudden way Castiel had pulled back and ended it, Dean would never forget that kiss. But the very fact that he had pulled away… That had hurt almost as bad as the physical blows had.

Due to his position, Dean had always had to be careful when it came to his more intimate relationships. While his subjects in no way expected Dean to be a virgin king until he married, they did expect him to eventually marry and either provide or name a legitimate heir, and any significant other he chose would have a power over the kingdom that was not easily dismissed. So he never entered into a relationship lightly.

In regards to temporary flings, even though Dean had known he was bisexual since his late teens, he had always favoured women. As a result of this, the kiss with Castiel had been his first kiss with a man in years, and he had never had the occasion or desire to go further than light groping with any particular man before.

Until now, anyway.

And yet, the situation between Castiel and himself was… Well, it was complicated.

Even if Dean could get out of this mess that he had found himself in with his head intact, there was still the little issue that Dean had, in fact, lied to Castiel the entire time about his true identity. That in itself would require a buttload of understanding and forgiveness from Castiel.

Never mind the fact that they were also from two different kingdoms.

Former enemy kingdoms.

Former enemy kingdoms now on the brink of war—again.

Which was possibly because of his own stupid plan. He really should have told Sam his plan. Sam would have seen the stupidity of it.

How long was Castiel going to leave him here alone anyway? The room he was in really didn’t have much to offer in the way of entertainment.

If he had been feeling up to it, he might have been inclined to escape. But his stomach hurt. And his wrists hurt. And he didn’t feel like getting out of bed.

He decided that he could at least test his bindings, like he usually did whenever they changed.

His movements were slow and cautious, so it took him longer than usual, but he warily tested the cuffs.

His breaths came shorter and his heart pounded when, at first, they didn’t move, but then a twist had them slipping off easily.

Dean shook his head, simultaneously amused and released from the panic that had been creeping up.

He pulled the shirt off and, after hesitating a moment, slipped the cuffs back in place. Knowing he could slip them off again at any point helped significantly.

He couldn’t wait to see Castiel’s expression when he saw what Dean had done, and he realized his mistake in leaving them so loose.

When the door opened a few minutes later, Dean was practically posing on the bed, hands resting behind his head with the cuffs on full display and his shirtless state clearly visible. There may not have been even the slightest chance that the two of them could work out together, but that wouldn’t stop Dean from enjoying himself when he could in the meantime.

So Dean was ready for Castiel, or perhaps someone (not Josiah) delivering his dinner, to walk in through that door. He did not expect the man who did actually walk in.

He was tall and thin, with a long face and sharp features, and Dean had never seen him before.

The man smiled at Dean as if it was just another pleasant day, and Dean sat up warily.

“Hello, Dean Winchester,” the man began in a nasally voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard such interesting things.” His speech was slow and purposeful.

“Unfortunately, I can’t say the same. Who are you supposed to be?”

“Ah, my apologies. You may call me Alastair. I am here on loan from King Azazel of Hellspyre to provide a service to the King of Calistamar. That service being, namely, you.”

_Well. He was fucked._

Dean knew exactly who Alastair was through his reputation. He had heard stories of that man’s disturbing and gruesomely appalling actions during the war when Hellspyre had provided additional forces to fight on Calistamar’s behalf.

“You came all this way for little old me?” Dean kept his voice light and teasing, while sweat began beading at his hairline.

_Not again,_ he thought. _I just went through a nightmare. Not again._

Alastair strolled causally around the room. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’m sure you will make the long journey worth it.”

With movements as subtle as possible, Dean slipped off one cuff.

“Does Castiel know you’re here?” After his adamant words earlier, which Dean still believed to be sincere, he couldn’t imagine Castiel permitting this man to enter his home.

He slipped off the other cuff and braced himself to make a break for it the moment Alastair was farthest from the door.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed slightly, but that benign smile never wavered. “That’s _Lord_ Castiel to you, _Sir_ Dean Winchester.”

Dean shrugged, using the motion to shift on the bed for a better angle to jump off it.

_A few more steps…_

Alastair continued. “And I can assure you that he was notified of my impending assistance days ago. So don’t fret. We won’t be interrupted.”

Dean surged off the bed, feet landing jarringly on the floor. But he fought through his pain and weakness, and sprinted for the door.

The bolt had been locked. He hadn’t even noticed Alastair doing that. It was an interior lock, so it only took Dean a second to open it, but that second was all it took for Alastair to reach him.

A sharp jab to his side had Dean doubling over as excruciating pain disabled him. A swift kick to the back of his knees had him dropping to the floor. Barely a second later, a hand on the back of his head slammed his forehead into the door, making his head spin and the one meal in his stomach want to fly free.

Through the vertigo, he barely heard Alastair say, “This room isn’t very conducive to keeping a prisoner.”

Then he was being dragged aside by his hair and the door was opening. Dean groaned. The room spun before his eyes no matter how much he blinked and tried to focus.

“You there! This can’t be where the prisoner was being kept. Where was he before?”

Undecipherable mumbling.

“Excellent, that will work perfectly. Be a dear, and fetch his chains for me.”

Then his hair was being pulled again. Dean bucked and clawed at the hand holding him, but only succeeded in earning a swift knee to the jaw, which had his teeth rattling.

Alastair dragged him down the hall and practically tossed him into a room. Dean scrambled up, managing to only sway a little bit.

He was back in Castiel’s room, he saw, grimacing. At least it had been cleaned since he had last been there.

An unfamiliar servant, perhaps another housemaid or a kitchen maid, was nervously handing Alastair the bundle of chains.

“Thank you, my dear. You may go now,” Alastair said. The servant gave Dean a wide-eyed look, then scurried off.

Alastair firmly shut the door, then turned to fully face Dean.

“Now, be a good boy and remain still while I put these on you.”

“Keep dreaming,” Dean said.

Alastair clucked at him. “You are hardly in any shape to stop me.”

“Guess you’ll just have to come over here and see for yourself,” taunted Dean.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

And that was when Alastair raised his hand and Dean simultaneously was slammed into the wall.

Dean gasped for air, unable to move a finger away from the wall due to the pressure all over his body, holding him there.

Alastair strolled over, calm as ever, until he was standing directly in front of Dean, where he was pinned.

He paused, possibly for dramatic effect, as Dean scowled. Then he ripped the bandages from Dean’s wrists.

Dean growled from deep in his throat, gritting his teeth.

“Can’t have these getting in the way,” Alastair explained. He slipped the still-locked leather cuffs around Dean’s newly exposed wrists and tightened them severely. Dean’s fingers spasmed.

Then the torturer proceeded to hook the long chain back around the beam and the end of it around a bed post. Lastly, he released his spell and simultaneously pulled on the chain, until Dean was right back in the same position he had been before Castiel had released him.

Dean fought against the trembling in his limbs as his muscles recalled being forced to remain that way for days.

“Much better,” Alastair sighed.

“Learned a few tricks from the war, I see.”

Alastair waved his hands. “Yes. Handy, isn’t it?”

With Dean secure, Alastair seemed content to resume taking his time. First, he went to Castiel’s desk and began carefully and deliberately clearing it off, placing every item in neat stacks on the floor or alternate surfaces.

_Where the hell was Castiel?_

Alastair had insisted that Castiel knew he was there, but the majority of Dean believed otherwise. He maintained that Castiel wouldn’t subject him to this after everything he had already been through. After what Castiel had promised.

And yet, a small part of him argued that he didn’t really know Lord Castiel of Calistamar. That part pointed out that allowing Alastair in to apparently torture information out of him, could be Castiel’s way of putting distance between himself and Dean. Especially after their kiss. Or perhaps he had been afraid he was being too soft on his prisoner. Perhaps fear for his family was breaking down his compassion.

Dean hoped those fears were wrong, but he truly had no way of knowing one way or the other. At least until Castiel showed himself.

Alastair had opened a bag that he had fetched from the hallway, and was laying out instruments of torture across the desk with a meticulous precision. The tools were easily in Dean’s line of sight so he could see what was coming, but far enough that he couldn’t reach any of it. A deliberate move, he was sure.

Task completed; Alastair faced Dean.

So,” he began. “Which device would you like to start with? Please, use your imagination while pondering the potential uses of each item. Feel free to weigh the pros and cons.”

“Fuck you,” Dean responded.

Alastair waved a long finger at him. “Now, now, Dean. You must pick one.”

Dean just glared. Alastair sighed.

“If you do not pick one, I will begin with removing all of your nails—fingers and toes—and that will just be the warm up. After that, I will start moving inward from the extremities.”

Dean’s exposed toes curled. He considered the options.

“The scalpel.” At least, if he could get a hand free, he could potentially wrestle it away from Alastair when the older man approached and use it as a weapon against him. Anything that had a chance of escape, no matter how slim, was better than nothing.

Alastair had never lost his smile. “Lovely,” he said. He picked up the scalpel and sauntered slowly over to Dean.

Standing before him, Alastair lifted the scalpel and lightly touched the blade to Dean’s cheek. Dean refused to turn his head away.

“Now, where should I begin, hm?”

Silence.

Dean provided Alastair with his hardest, coldest look. He kept that expression on his face even as every ounce of him simply wanted to panic.

“No answer?” Alastair reached up and purposely poked the bruise on Dean’s cheek in retaliation. “What about here?” Alastair prodded Dean’s neck. “Or here?” A prod to his shoulder. “Perhaps here?” His chest.

Then Alastair poked his stomach, right where the revengeful Josiah had punched Dean in the gut as punishment for Dean talking back at him. Although he tried not to react, the action forced an involuntary wince from Dean.

And Alastair noticed. His grin widened.

Alastair poked once more at the dark bruise on his abdomen.

“Looks like someone got started on you before I could.” He poked the bruise again, harder this time.

Dean grunted at the sharp pain, blinking his eyes to prevent the tears that wanted to form.

Not for the first time, Dean wished his Magick had recovered enough to increase his pain tolerance at the very least.

Once more, Alastair brought the scalpel up to Dean’s chest, this time pressing it lightly against the bare skin of his left pectoral.

“You will never break me,” Dean said.

“Everyone breaks. It’s only a matter of when.”

The scalpel pressed down, cutting a thin line into Dean’s skin.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall, and Castiel, looking absolutely livid, stormed in like a thundercloud on a summer day, promising both refreshing rain and deadly lightning.

He strode right up to Alastair, grabbed him by the collar with both hands, backed him up and slammed him against the wall with a loud bang.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Castiel roared, his tone fierce and his expression uncompromising. “By what right do you dare enter _my _home and accost _my_ captive without my leave?”

Calm as ever, completely unflustered by Castiel’s ire, Alastair smoothly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a piece of parchment.

“It’s a letter,” he explained in an amused tone. “From King Michael, to be exact. It specifically requests my presence to interrogate Dean Winchester, a prisoner of the Crown, and to retrieve any information I deem necessary to aid in the safe return of the missing Calistamar royals.” His lips quirked. “By any means necessary and subject only to the King’s approval.”

Dean sucked in a breath. If that letter was true, it essentially meant that Alastair had a carte blanche from Michael to do whatever the hell he wanted with Dean.

Castiel looked as stunned as Dean felt.

Alastair tapped on Castiel’s fingers, still fisted in his shirt.

Stiffly, Castiel released the man and stepped back, worry and concern taking over his features.

It could all be an act, Dean reminded himself, but he was ever more inclined to believe that Castiel knew nothing of this until just now.

Castiel took the letter from Alastair, glancing over it. “I knew Michael was sending someone, but I didn’t expect…” He trailed off.

_Well, damn…_ Apparently Castiel just hadn’t expected the Grand Torturer himself. Dean stood corrected.

“Didn’t expect little old me? Last time I saw you, you were just a tiny scrawling baby. I loved pinching your little cheeks.”

Castiel recoiled.

“Now, I do really need to get back to work and that does require a degree of privacy.” Alastair moved his hands in a ‘shooing’ motion. “So, if you don’t mind.”

Castiel didn’t budge. “What are you going to do?”

“Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Don’t worry, I don’t expect it to take long. Though if you have anything against screams, it’s probably best if you take a long walk.”

Castiel wavered. “I—You—”

“Come now,” Alastair admonished, pushing Castiel toward the door. “You can’t disobey your King, can you now? Best to just let it go. I’ll let you know when I’m done, so you can send someone to clean up the mess.”

Dean could only watch, stunned, as Castiel gave Dean a wide-eyed look, Michael’s letter clutched to his chest, as he actually allowed Alastair to shoo him out the door. The moment Castiel took that last backward step out of the room, Alastair shut the door in his face.

“Now, where were we?”

A new feeling rose in Dean: betrayal.

How could Castiel just leave him there with that monster to be tortured? Despite his own occasional doubts, he had thought they had been coming to an understanding.

First Castiel had gone and proven to Dean that he hadn’t intended for Dean to be abused and certainly hadn’t supported it, and then he went and did this? Left Dean to his fate on Michael’s word?

Castiel himself had already viewed Dean’s memories of that day and found nothing to suggest that Dean had had anything to do with the disappearances. But obviously, Castiel’s loyalty to his brother and kingdom trumped that fact.

And Dean knew he hadn’t imagined the passion of their kiss, but it seemed he had misinterpreted Castiel’s seemingly changed attitude toward him. Or his own feelings had caused his mind to imagine whatever may or may not have been budding between them.

Perhaps that had been Castiel’s strategy all along—gain Dean’s trust through kindness and sympathy. So that while others tried to torture the information out of him, Castiel went a parallel route with the same goal, each feeding off the other.

And it had mostly worked. Other than hiding his true identity, Dean hadn’t fought Castiel’s mind-read at all, not one little bit. He had trusted Castiel to only view his memories and not try to remove or alter anything while he was in there.

The whole incident with Josiah could have been a set-up. After all, Dean had no proof of where Castiel had actually been during those three horrid days.

The kiss could have simply been Castiel blowing off steam, or maybe he was just that good of a liar.

Dean’s mind spun around and around until he could no longer believe anything was real other than the fact that he was still a captive who was about to be tortured and Castiel was letting it happen.

Focused as he was on that bleak thought, he barely noticed Alastair approach with the scalpel until its sharp blade bit into his chest once more.

Then Alastair began carving and every other thought other than pain flew out of Dean’s mind. The cuts were shallow, but they didn’t have to be deep to hurt like a line of fire on his skin.

Alastair carved his name.

He carved symbols and runes.

He carved crude little drawings of stick figures torturing each other. At least that’s what Dean assumed they were doing from his point of view and through the sweat dripping into his eyes, blurring his vision.

All the while Alastair talked, sang, or hummed, never silent, as if it was all totally normal.

Dean’s mind emptied of everything except Alastair’s words.

“As you may have heard, I earned my title during the Great Blight War. Such a wonderful period of time.”

Carve.

“I had come of age during the war, and having already discovered my penchant for pain in all its forms, I volunteered to be part of the force that Hellspyre promised Calistamar as part of their agreement.”

Carve.

“I tortured all shapes and sizes then. The young and the old. The injured and the strong. Men and women. Mortaleigh and even Calistamar when the opportunity arose.”

Carve.

“There was no difference to me, other than how they broke under my knife.”

Carve.

“What you may not know, is that I also had the pleasure of torturing a relative of yours: John Winchester, himself.”

That broke through Dean’s stupor. His father—carve.

“Of course, he was only an Advisor to the Throne back then, but he would soon enough become the King-Consort and later Regent of Mortaleigh. As you are, of course, aware, being from Mortaleigh yourself.”

Carve.

“How closely are you related to John Winchester, I wonder? Cousin? Nephew once removed? Third cousin twice removed on your mother’s side?”

Dean remained silent, breathing harshly through his nose from the plane of fire that was his chest.

Carve.

“Oh well. Another story for another time, perhaps. Unfortunately, John and I were interrupted before we could finish. A pity. Breaking him would have been glorious.”

Carve.

And on it continued.

Dean held out through the first of the carvings, but when Alastair ran out of room on his pectorals and moved downward to his bruised and sensitive abdomen, that’s when the screams started to escape.

And on it continued.

When Alastair finally ran out of room on Dean’s front, he stopped.

Dean, panting and shaking, blearily watched him return to the table. Alastair wet a cloth with water from a bottle he had brought with him, and Dean wondered if he needed to clean up the blood running down Dean’s chest before continuing his ‘masterpiece.’

When the cloth touched the first wound on Dean’s chest, however, Dean’s screamed harshly before his throat caught and he choked briefly.

It hadn’t been water in that bottle.

As the dripping cloth rubbed softly over the open lacerations, it caused the cuts to burn, sending needles of pain throughout his body and making his limbs spasm.

“I can see that you particularly enjoy this bit. The liquid is comprised of my own carefully cultivated ratio of water to salt. An extremely high concentration of salt, if I am to be totally honest.”

Alastair’s gentle motions with the cloth contrasted chillingly with the fire it left in its wake.

Dean trembled.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he tried kicking at Alastair, knowing deep inside that it wouldn’t do any good.

Naturally, Alastair merely stepped away out Dean’s reach, and picked up a long needle from his table.

Striking as swiftly as a snake, he snatched one of Dean’s legs in a firm hold, and jabbed the needle directly into the back of Dean’s knee, causing Dean’s leg to immediately go limp.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelled.

Alastair stepped back again, admiring his handiwork.

Panting, Dean asked, “Why haven’t you started asking any questions yet?”

Alastair shrugged nonchalantly and hummed. “There’s no point in asking now. You haven’t been broken yet. Once you’ve been broken, that’s when I will know that everything you’re saying is the truth.”

“Well, get on with it then.”

Alastair simply smiled. “I intend to.”

He picked up a hammer, used his free hand to isolate Dean’s left-hand pinking finger against the wall, and lifted the hammer to swing.


	6. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_Earlier…_

Castiel stood in the hallway just outside his bedroom door. His head was in his hands and his eyes were shut, but he didn’t block his ears from hearing Dean’s screams.

He deserved having to listen to each one.

_What have I done?_

All he could see behind his closed eyelids was Dean’s face just before the door had closed. That look of confusion, hurt, and betrayal. Similar to the look he had given him when Castiel had pulled away from their kiss, before he had closed down his expressions completely.

Another scream reverberated in Castiel’s eardrums. He shuddered.

He couldn’t even imagine what Dean was suffering through at Alastair’s hands.

If he stopped for even a second to consider it, he knew that he would be back through that door in an instant.

But the consequences of such an action would be dire, and it would do nothing to save Dean from his current fate in the end.

Alastair had Michael’s direct approval to be there, doing exactly what he was going. It was all clearly summarized in the letter that Castiel had read over and over again, trying to find a loophole, before the screams had begun. It now resided crumpled up in his pocket.

The letter included a line stating that if anyone, even Castiel, should try to interfere in any way, they too would be accused of treason. And Castiel wouldn’t put it past Alastair to demand full repercussions for any slight, real or imagined.

Castiel’s hands were just as bound as Dean’s.

But he also couldn’t do nothing. He couldn’t just let this happen under his roof.

In the past, Castiel had let Michael’s more unsavory commands pass by without comment, but not this time. Not here. Not to his captive.

The question was: How could he stop it?

His hands rubbed at his eyes. He could feel a headache growing behind them. His heart was pumping faster and his couldn’t seem to draw in enough air.

This feeling of anxiety—surely a normal reaction to any potentially innocent person being tortured in his own home. Castiel wasn’t about to over analyze the fact that it was when images of Dean in pain intruded into his mind that the symptoms got worse. Or that he was fairly certain that he would be reacting the same way if this was all happening in the palace dungeon.

None of these thoughts answered the big question, however.

How could he save Dean—er, demonstrate human decency, without abandoning his loyalty to his own family.

Dean screamed again, voice cracking from overuse and wrenched by pain.

Castiel fled through the halls of his home, as his eyes welled up with tears of frustration at his inability to stop Dean’s pain.

He escaped outside to the rear of the house and made his way to the cliff. Standing at the edge, looking out to the sea, the roar of the waves crashing against the cliff-side far below drowned out any sounds from the house behind him.

The western sky above the sea was full of fiery colours as the sun set below the water.

The view reminded him of a memory that he had seen in Dean’s mind. He had been on a beach, playing with his little brother in the sand, except the sky over that sea had been already beginning to darken with the encroaching fall of night and the first stars had been making their appearance in the farthest reaches out over the sea.

He stood there, letting the wind whip his hair and the long coat that he hadn’t even taken the time to shed before rushing to his room after hearing about Alastair’s arrival. The icy air dried his cheeks and burned in his lungs as he drew in deep breaths.

Dean’s memories… Castiel blinked, an idea slowly dawning on him.

He had seen Dean’s memories, and from those, he knew that Dean had done nothing related to the disappearances on the day of the celebration. He had been planning on trying again later on, and going backward from there to ensure that Dean truly hadn’t been a part of planning the incident either.

But, if he was being honest with himself, Castiel didn’t really think Dean had had anything to do with it at all.

In fact, as time passed and Castiel reflected on everything that had occurred, he grew more and more certain that Dean was innocent.

Right then and there, Castiel decided to trust Dean Winchester.

If he was wrong, it could mean his head, but every part of him told him that this was right. And it could very well be the only way to save Dean from Alastair’s hands.

Castiel spun around and raced back into the house, all the way up to his room without pausing to catch his breath.

He threw open the door to the sight of Alastair about to swing a hammer down on Dean’s hand.

Rushing forward, he managed to grab Alastair’s arm just before the hammer connected with Dean’s fingers.

Dean stared at him warily, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to think of Castiel’s actions. Castiel had to look away from Dean before he fully acknowledged what had been done to Dean’s chest.

“Lord Castiel. What, may I ask, are you doing?” Alastair questioned, his arm still in Castiel’s grip.

“I vouch for him,” Castiel said hurriedly.

Alastair frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I vouch for his innocence,” Castiel asserted, slower this time. “I have searched this man’s memories and found nothing incriminating regarding the disappearance of the princes and Lord Metatron. As stated in King Michael’s words,” Castiel waved Alastair’s letter in his face, “you have authority over Dean Winchester only until it has been determined if he is innocent or guilty. I vouch for him. He is innocent. If it is found otherwise, the consequences will be mine, but _you_ are done here.”

Alastair scowled, his former unfazed countenance long gone. “You cannot do this. You don’t have the authority to deem someone innocent.”

“But I do. A noble of royal blood may vouch for the innocence of an accused person unless incontrovertible proof is found to claim otherwise.”

Alastair sputtered. “That law was passed during the Blight War so that the nobles could have their spies and assassins carry out orders without fear of reprisals should they be accused, and it was hardly used because those same nobles rarely took the risk it posed to themselves to save their puppets.”

Castiel stood firm. “All the same, it is still the law.”

“You’re really willing to risk your own neck for some random knight from Mortaleigh, when what I’m doing here could very well prove his innocence just as well as his guilt? What does it matter to you if he is tortured or not?”

“It matters,” Castiel stated simply.

Alastair considered Castiel’s expression. “Very well. You have won this round. Release me,” he said. His eyes were flinty.

Castiel let go of his arm.

Alastair moved to the desk and began packing up his tools. “Know this, Castiel. You have not seen the last of me.” Carrying his bag, Alastair sauntered back to Dean and patted him on the cheek. “We’ll resume our playtime soon.”

Dean flinched away from Alastair’s touch, glowering at him.

“Get out of my house,” Castiel said in a louder tone of voice than was probably necessary. “If you are still on my land by nightfall… Well, it’s been a while since my dogs have had a good hunt.”

With a glare, Alastair strode out of the room and was finally gone.

Immediately, Castiel unhooked the chain from his bed. Dean stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet this time, once the chain had slackened.

Castiel began walking over to Dean, but stopped when Dean took a step backward, his expression wary and untrusting.

That look stabbed at Castiel. He pulled out his keys and held them up for Dean to see.

He said, “I’m just going to unlock the cuffs.”

Dean paused, then lifted his chained hands.

Castiel approached, and with slow, deliberate movements, unlocked both cuffs.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured to Dean as he did so. “I wish I had made the decision to trust you sooner, so I could have prevented...” His words trailed off.

Dean didn’t say anything. Favouring one leg, Dean reached back and pulled a long needle from where it had been stabbed into the back of that leg. Castiel flinched back as Dean winced and hissed in pain as the needle was withdrawn.

When Dean’s legs gave way, however, Castiel instinctively moved forward again and caught him as he fell.

“Don’t,” Dean snapped, wobbling to his feet and shoving Castiel away from him.

Castiel took a few steps back, feeling like he had just been torn up inside. But he deserved any hostility he got from Dean for what he had let happen. If he were Dean, he would hate him too.

“I’m sorry.” It was all Castiel could think to say.

Dean limped over to the mattress that was still there and gradually lowered himself onto it.

As Dean caught his breath, Castiel finally regarded the damage that had been done to Dean’s chest. It appeared as though the wounds had been washed clean, so Castiel could fully see the countless number of shallow cuts. The remaining skin between was red and irritated by something.

But what was worse than the actual injuries were the words and images they were comprised of. Alastair was cruel and sick, and Castiel could only be grateful that he had stopped Alastair before the vile man could do even more damage. What he had already done was terrible and would leave even more scars on Dean, but it would thankfully heal in time.

He could only hope that Dean’s fierce soul would heal as well, and that he could forgive Castiel.

With a closed expression, likely masking his pain, Dean looked up at him.

“Why are you suddenly trusting me now?” Dean asked. His words were biting and his tone was dripping with bitterness. “Is it simply out of pity? A symptom of a bleeding heart? Was my _torture_ something that offended your delicate sensibilities? Or did my screams just annoy you that much?”

Castiel blanched at the venom in Dean’s tone. His shoulders curled inward as guilt, shame and regret ate away at him. “I’m sorry…”

“I don’t want your apologies,” Dean snapped.

Castiel recoiled. He had to get out of there. “I—I’ll be right back,” he said.

Then he walked out, leaving Dean all alone and unchained for the first time since he had been arrested.

He went to his bathroom, leaned against the counter, and just stood there.

Why did Dean’s rejection hurt so much?

Castiel completely understood the feelings behind it, and besides their one kiss, it wasn’t like they had exactly been close before.

Yet, there it was. A hard ache in his chest that refused to go away no matter how much he told himself it was stupid.

Castiel, himself, had been the one to stop their kiss! And he knew that he had hurt Dean by doing so. So was this rejection of Castiel’s compassion not just desserts? Fate righting itself?

Castiel had fled from Dean’s romantic advance and now Dean turned away from Castiel’s care. It was only fair.

Steeling himself, Castiel filled a small basin with warm water, grabbed a clean cloth and returned to his room.

Dean was right where he had left him, staring down at his wrists, and Castiel couldn’t help letting a sigh of relief escape that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to run away.

Castiel knelt in front of Dean, wet the cloth and attempted to bring it to Dean’s chest, but Dean’s hand darted out and caught Castiel’s wrist.

Glaring, Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Castiel beat him to it, saying, “Please.” As much as Dean may not have wanted him near, he needed help and Castiel was determined to give it.

Dean hesitated, staring into his eyes. Castiel desperately wanted to look away from that penetrating gaze, but made himself keep eye contact, striving to keep his body relaxed and as non-threatening as possible.

Finally, Dean relented. “Fine,” he grumbled, dropping Castiel’s wrist.

Moving as slowly and gently as possible, Castiel washed the cuts. Sadly, he was getting quite experienced at cleaning wounds.

Dean winced as the cloth moved over his skin, but gradually relaxed as the warm water washed everything away. Castiel observed as Dean’s bunched muscles released their tension, bit by bit.

“To answer your questions,” Castiel began, “I probably believed that you were innocent long ago, but I had been unwilling to accept it and abandon my only lead to recovering my family.”

His eyes lifted to Dean’s face, searching for encouragement to continue. But Dean had his gaze averted, expression blank, not saying a word.

Castiel continued anyway. “After seeing your memories of that day, I should have released you then. I just—I had wanted to be one hundred percent sure before having to admit that I had failed. That I had imprisoned the wrong man and put you through all of this for nothing.”

Still no response from Dean.

“What happened over the last few days and then Alastair’s arrival only made that decision more urgent. But it didn’t change what I already felt. It wasn’t my sympathy for you that had me vouching for your innocence. If I believed that you could still be guilty, Alastair would still be here, without question.”

Dean shivered at the mention of Alastair. He looked up, studying Castiel’s expression, which Castiel knew was hard and unyielding at that point. He hoped Dean would understand his willingness to use torture when necessary.

To Castiel’s relief, Dean seemed to accept it when he nodded slowly at Castiel’s explanation.

Now came the hardest part.

“Once you’re healed enough to travel, you’re free to go.” Castiel’s gaze had dropped to Dean’s chest, focusing on the cloth’s movements, because he couldn’t look Dean in the eyes for this part.

He had already gotten most of the remaining blood off, and the majority of the shallow wounds had already stopped bleeding and were starting to close, to Castiel’s surprise.

“I’m really free?” Castiel heard Dean ask. “I won’t be chained up again?”

“Yes.”

“If I wanted to leave right now, right this second, I could?”

Castiel couldn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded.

“I have one more question,” Dean said.

Castiel braced himself, wondering what Dean would ask of him.

“What did our kiss mean to you?”

Castiel’s head whipped up in surprise. Dean’s expression was veiled, revealing nothing.

“I—It—” Castiel swallowed. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

He saw Dean start drawing away, back into himself, and quickly added, “But I would like to find out.”

From where Castiel had the cloth, now motionless, placed on Dean’s chest, he could feel Dean take a deep breath.

“I’d like to find out too,” Dean said. Then he was reaching for Castiel, but Castiel was already meeting him halfway. Their mouths clashed together in a desperate struggle to get as close as possible and _devour_. Tongues were sucked. Lips were nipped. And Castiel wasn’t even sure who was doing what, it was all a blur of touches, shared breaths, and racing heartbeats.

Castiel couldn’t believe it. Dean was kissing him again. Willingly. _Enthusiastically._

What had he done to deserve this?

Dean’s arms wrapped around Castiel’s neck and his fingers dug into his hair, holding tight and making Castiel moan. One of Castiel’s hands supported Dean’s back, while the other grabbed hold of Dean’s rear, pulling Dean closer until he was sitting astride Castiel’s kneeling legs.

Dean tensed at the change in position, turning his head aside. Rapid breaths ghosted across Castiel’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—We can stop.”

‘No, don’t want to stop,” Dean murmured. “Just… Just give me a second.”

Castiel’s hand on Dean’s back rubbed soothingly. “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.” Castiel closed his eyes, just memorizing the feeling of Dean in his arms as Dean’s tension slowly drained away.

Then Dean turned back and caught his lips in another kiss. This one was slower, yet deeper and all the more intimate for it.

Castiel was careful not to press against Dean’s chest, keeping their contact above their necks and below their waists.

Dean shifted forward slightly and his groin rubbed against Castiel’s, making Castiel gasp against Dean’s mouth. His fingers flexed on Dean’s backside, and his hips pressed upward in response.

Dean’s head tilted back. “Cas…”

“S—sorry,” Castiel stammered, fighting his body’s need to _move_.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean growled. “I’m not moaning your name to tell you to stop.” Stubbornness filled his green eyes.

“But we can, if you need—”

“Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” At that moment, Dean pressed down with his hips, groin grinding firmly against Castiel’s, head thrown back once more.

Castiel cursed the barrier of clothes between them.

With his mouth out of reach, Castiel turned his attention to Dean’s jaw, kissing and licking his way down the hard line of it.

Dean’s hips started finding a rhythm, but they stuttered when Castiel’s tongue found Dean’s ear, tracing around the shell of it. When Dean shuddered, and his hips found their rhythm again, faster this time, Castiel’s lips deviously moved away from Dean’s ear, down to his neck.

He didn’t want to leave any hickies, unwilling to mar any more of Dean’s skin that day, so he kissed Dean’s throat soothingly between murmurs of, “Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean moaned in response. “Bed,” he rasped.

As much as he hated to do so, Castiel pulled back. “Wait, Dean. We can’t. You’re injured and… It’s been a hard few days.”

“I’m fine. This—” he gestured at his chest. “This isn’t serious. It’s already healing.” Dean’s eyes were beseeching. “As for what happened… That’s why I need this. Please, Cas. Help me forget.”

With regret, yes also conviction, Castiel shook his head. “Dean, no. Not like this. I don’t want this to just be about helping you to forget what happened. If we do this—If we pursue this, whatever this is, I want it to be for us.”

That seemed to sober Dean up from the haze of desire edged with desperation that Castiel had glimpsed in his eyes.

With an expression both humbled and sincere, Dean said, “It is for us. I promise.” He chuckled. “To be honest, I’ve wanted you since I saw you ride up on your horse, despite having just been kicked around. That hasn’t changed. Even when I thought the worst of you.”

Castiel swallowed, but he needed to know. “What did you think?”

Dean sighed. “I thought that you could have been lying. About everything. Trying to get me to trust you so that I would reveal my deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Ah, so you found me out.”

Dean blinked, then punched Castiel in the arm.

“Ow!” Castiel protested, but he was smiling. “What? You really thought my fumbling attempts to keep professional while denying _my own_ desire for you were signs of a hidden plot to make you like me?”

Dean huffed. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose not.”

It was Castiel’s turn to chuckle. “You still haven’t convinced me that taking you to bed right now is a good idea.”

Dean smirked. “I just have to convince you? Is that it? Challenge accepted.” And he _rubbed_ against Castiel, who could clearly feel Dean’s hardness through his pants.

Castiel titled his head back, biting back a moan. That, however, only granted Dean greater access and he took full advantage by pushing aside his shirt, leaning in, and sucking on his exposed collarbone.

Dean ground against Castiel again, and the moan escaped. “Dean…”

“Take me to bed, Cas. I want to forget, yes. But I also want you. I want to start this thing with a bang, and see where it takes us. I want all the time that we have, no matter how long or how short. I don’t want to wait until I’m healed and lose that time. That’s not the story I want for us.”

Dean’s motion paused, waiting for Castiel’s response.

Castiel placed his forehead against Dean’s, his eyes closed, considering. Dean was warm on his lap, a heat source Castiel wanted to get closer to. His weight on him was solid and real, steadying his thoughts.

If they did more than make out, potentially even full-blown sex, there was a chance Dean’s injuries could get aggravated or even worsened.

If they did this now, they could regret it in the morning. But wasn’t that a risk with all new relationships? There was always a chance it would end badly. And a chance that it wouldn’t.

If they waited, they could potentially gain a better understanding if this was something that would work out between them. Or something could happen that could prevent any relationship between them entirely.

If Alastair returned to Granamar and got Michael on his side, this could be their only chance. If Michael was in a bad enough mood, they could both be exiled or dead within a few days.

If. If. If.

In the end, however, Dean’s injuries took precedence, despite his protestations that they weren’t serious. Whether Castiel wanted to take the risk of waiting and potentially never knowing, or if he was willing to risk living in the moment and all the consequences that could come with it, didn’t matter.

“Not tonight, Dean,” Castiel said softly. “You need to rest. To heal.”

“Cas—”

Castiel placed a finger on Dean’s lips, making Dean raise an eyebrow at him.

“I will still be here in the morning. I can promise that much.” He took a breath. “Will you be?” He lifted his finger.

Dean was silent for a moment, during which time Castiel could hear his own heart pumping loudly.

“I have no plans to leave just yet. I’ll be here,” Dean said in a serious tone.

Castiel’s smile rose to the surface. “Good.”

“You’re seriously going to leave us both frustrated though?” Dean rolled his hips against Castiel, accentuating his point.

Castiel cleared his throat, resisting the urge to grind back. “There may be something we can do about that. Something less… strenuous.”

“Excellent,” Dean said, leaning forward to speak directly into Castiel’s ear. “Let’s do that.”

Castiel quickly amended his previous statement. “We should at least clean and bind your chest first.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “What’s the point? The cuts have stopped bleeding and are already starting to heal. A bandage would just get dirty and we’d have to change it again right after, so might as well just wait.”

Castiel grimaced. “No, that’s where I’m drawing the line. They could open up again from all the… movement, and I’m not into blood play.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asked, smirking.

“I’m sure,” Castiel said flatly.

Dean shrugged. “Alright, Dr. Seraphon. Bandage me.” He held out his arms to either side.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m going to run out of first aid supplies with you around.”

“Then stop letting me get hurt.”

Castiel winced, and Dean grimaced at his own words. He laid a hand on Castiel’s chest apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for and I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I don’t blame you.”

Castiel smiled weakly. “Anymore, anyway.”

Dean chuckled softly at Castiel’s attempted joke. “Right.”

Then Castiel tightened his hold on Dean and stood with him still in his arms, grunting a little with the effort.

“Woah, shit,” Dean swore at the sudden change in altitude, but he instinctively wrapped his legs around Castiel’s hips and held onto his neck.

Castiel maneuvered them to the bed, and dropped Dean down onto it, where he bounced a little.

“Stay there,” he commanded. “Please.”

Dean lay back on the bed, where he was obviously content to remain, wearing only Castiel’s pants and the black armbands that had managed to remain perfectly in place.

The bandages remaining from before were quickly fetched from the desk drawer where Castiel had stashed them. Then Castiel returned to the bed, standing beside it, and motioned for Dean to sit back up.

Dean obliged, and Castiel wrapped his entire chest in the gauzy white stuff until his torso resembled that of a snowman.

“Satisfied?” Dean asked.

“Very,” Castiel responded. Then he climbed onto the bed, gently pulling Dean to him. Dean came to him easily.

Before Castiel could meet him in a kiss, however, Dean had pushed him down on the bed and swung a leg over his hips, straddling him.

Castiel put his hands on Dean’s hips while Dean began unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt. Castiel rolled his hips up experimentally, causing Dean’s hands to falter.

“Not yet,” Dean growled, and he shifted downward until his head was level with Castiel’s chest, just as he got the last of the buttons undone, revealing the expanse of his chest.

Dean licked his lips, staring down at him. Castiel flushed from the observation.

Dean noticed, leaned down, and nipped his jaw. “You are bewitching.” He gestured to his own damaged chest. “I won’t be nearly as handsome even when these heal.”

Castiel gave Dean a stern look. He lightly took one of Dean’s arms, criss-crossed with multiple old, pale scars itself, in his hands, making his intentions clear as he moved. Then he brought Dean’s forearm to his mouth, kissing one of the scars and then tracing it with his tongue.

Dean shivered.

“I admire every part of you. Scarred or not,” Castiel assured him.

Dean closed his green eyes. Opened them.

Then he leaned down and sucked at one of Castiel’s nipples, tugging it slightly and causing Castiel to hiss and arch his back in pleasure at the sensation. Dean nipped the areola, then laved at the site of his bite with his tongue, as if soothing the hurt, while his hand found Castiel’s other nipple to play with.

While Castiel writhed under this onslaught, he could feel Dean’s free hand moving south and beginning to work on Castiel’s pants. One handed, it was slow work.

Dean kissed and tongued his way down Castiel’s chest, delving into his belly button and making Castiel shudder from the spike of pleasure that travelled straight south.

Impatient, Castiel gently swatted Dean’s hand away, undid his pants himself, and freed his own erection. Then he quickly did the same for Dean.

Glancing down between them, Castiel’s mouth watered. Before he could take action on his desire, Dean was backing away. Only far enough to tug off his pants, then he was returning and taking Castiel in his hand.

This was really happening. Castiel couldn’t believe it.

Castiel’s hands twisted in the sheets as Dean shifted lower and sucked on the sensitive skin where his thighs met his hips. Dean’s fingers caressed him teasingly, but not providing the friction he so desperately craved.

Castiel bucked his hips, trying to increase the pressure. Dean chuckled, held his hips steady with one hand, and then licked him from root to tip with the flat of his tongue, making Castiel cry out.

All while his vivid green eyes watched him, Dean took Castiel’s member into his mouth, flicking the tip with his tongue at first, then taking it deeper.

Castiel broke eye contact with Dean before he could explode from the sight. He was already so close. It had been far too long. Just a little more and he would reach that point of no return. The sensation of Dean’s hand and mouth working him over was indescribable.

But he wanted this to last, so he sat up, reached down and stopped Dean’s hand.

Dean released him, and looked up at him questioningly.

“Lubricant,” Castiel managed to get out in all his eloquence.

He let Dean shift off of him and moved to the side of the bed, reaching into the side table drawer. Castiel pulled out a small jar of translucent oil.

When he turned back, Dean was grinning. “Someone’s prepared.”

Castiel’s cheeks heated, and he shrugged.

When he shuffled back over, Dean reached up to pull him in for a deep kiss. Slow and steady, Castiel took the time to explore Dean’s mouth, the shape of his lips, and the taste of his tongue.

It was a give and take, an ebb and flow, rather than a battle for dominance.

He let Dean take the lead, while he watched for signs of Dean pushing himself too far as he moved over Castiel.

Then Dean’s hips dropped downward, contact was made, and nearly all thoughts were forgotten.

Dean had to restrain his own movements. All his body wanted to do was get as close to Castiel as possible, but he couldn’t just press against him like he should have been able to.

_Damn cuts._

That didn’t stop him from ensuring that their lower halves never parted, however. After generously applying the oil, Dean gripped both of their erections in his hand. This was new for Dean: this mutual hand job.

He loved it.

The friction of Castiel’s hardness rubbing against his own, all while encased in the heat and pressure of his hand? Oh, yes. Dean would definitely be doing this again.

Equally new was what he had just done moments before. That too, he was eager to try again. The one taste he had just gotten hadn’t been nearly enough.

And Castiel was _well_ endowed, so more practise was certainly called for.

The new experiences worked quite well to help him forget… what he was trying to forget. And even if he had to leave in a few days, he would never forget this time with Castiel. No matter when or how it ended.

“Dean,” Castiel cried out. “I’m—” Castiel’s hips bucked and his lust-glazed blue eyes fluttered shut as he came, shooting up onto his chest and stomach.

Dean shuddered at the sight of Castiel, wrecked by his orgasm. He released Castiel’s spent cock, taking himself solely in hand. Moving at a quick, harsh pace, it only took a few moments of watching Castiel tremble beneath him from the last throws of orgasm to bring Dean to his own.

Dean’s muscles locked in place as the waves of pleasure crashed through him, overwhelming everything else.

It went on and on.

When he finally resurfaced, his arms gave out and he had to roll to the side to avoid his chest landing on Castiel.

“Careful,” he heard Castiel caution.

On his back, he turned his head to see Castiel sitting up. His chest was painted with white streaks of semen from both of them. Dean was sure his bandages hadn’t escaped unscathed either.

Castiel got up from the bed, using the posts to steady himself.

“Where are you going?” Dean asked. He silently cursed the nervousness in his voice.

“Just getting a cloth to clean up,” Castiel replied with a smirk over his shoulder.

Buttoning up his pants that had never gotten fully removed, he picked up the discarded basin and cloth, and left.

Dean sat up and stared at the door.

A minute later he started fidgeting.

Another minute and he was debating getting out of the bed and pacing.

Then Castiel returned and the restlessness passed.

He had apparently rinsed the cloth in his bathroom and refilled the basin with fresh water. Castiel deposited the water and cloth on the side table, grabbed the medicinal ointment and additional bandages from the same drawer in the desk as previously.

When he approached the bed, Dean rolled those same eyes, but didn’t issue a protest. Instead, he moved to its edge so it would be easier for Castiel to change the bandage

Thanks to the healing spell put on him as a baby, one of many often placed on Mortaleigh children in infancy, Dean was sure his cuts were already well on their way to being healed. It took longer while he was without Magick, but the spell thankfully still worked even when he was running completely dry.

Nevertheless, he let Castiel tend to him, first removing the predictably soiled bandages and cleaning him off again, before applying the ointment and wrapping him in fresh bandages. Castiel did the same thing for his wrists as well.

Once Castiel was satisfied, he discarded the supplies, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over them both.

Dean rolled over so his back was facing Castiel, then reached back and pulled Castiel close so that his arm was resting on him and Castiel’s front was pressed up against him.

With Castiel’s warm body pressed against him from behind, yet with space to breath in front of him, Dean felt sheltered. Protected.

It was surprising to him, considering everything he had gone through under Castiel’s watch. But both times he had been mistreated, first by Josiah and then Alastair, Castiel had come to his rescue.

A little late, one could argue, but he had still come. And Dean believed him when he had said he hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. When he had apologized and given Dean back his freedom.

Castiel had taken a leap and trusted Dean, and Dean had decided to do the same.

The question was how much to trust him with. But that was a question for another time.

Content in the moment, he quickly drifted off to sleep.

When Dean awoke, the only light was from the dying embers in the fireplace and the moon high in the sky outside the window.

Behind him, Castiel slept on peacefully.

Feeling restless, Dean slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the window, gazing out at the sea. The water was calm that night, the waves breaking gently against the craggy rocks at the bottom of the cliff, far below.

It had started snowing again, fluffy white flakes drifted downward on invisible currents.

Everything was calm and quiet. The eye of the storm, Dean thought.

Sure, he had suffered through physical and mental hell the last few days, but it was what was coming that could truly break him.

As much as he longed to put it off for as long as possible, he knew that Castiel would find out who he was at some point. And that news would be a thousand times better coming directly from his lips—lips that could hopefully provide apologetic kisses shortly thereafter.

If it had been any other time, under any other circumstances less dire than these, Dean could have stayed indefinitely. He would have had to return periodically and open up a line of communication with Sam, but ideally he could have stayed for months before having to return to being King of Mortaleigh.

However, with things being as they were… He didn’t have that luxury.

So Castiel had to be told.

Soon.

In a few days.

After Dean had bought himself enough time wooing Castiel to convince him that Dean was worth a long-distance relationship with a king.

Because Dean wanted that relationship. Initially, he had thought that a taste might be enough, but now he knew that he just had to have Castiel for a good, long while.

Possibly forever? That still remained to be seen.

Dean shivered, which was unsurprising consider he was naked (besides the bandages) and the fire was practically dead. So he stoked the fire with logs that had been left aside and went sleuthing through Castiel’s dresser drawers for something to wear.

He found a pair of plain, grey pants and a thick, long-sleeved shirt, which he put on, slipping the shirt gently over his chest, and then he returned to the window.

The wounds on his chest didn’t hurt anymore. If he peeked under the bandages, he was sure he would find them nearly completely healed to new, pink scars. Dean could have taken the time to explain to Castiel how Mortaleigh’s healing spell worked earlier, but he had had other things on his mind.

Essentially, when any baby was born in Mortaleigh, its parents, if they were wealthy enough, could hire a Magick user to cast a permanent healing spell on the infant. Nearly all of the nobility had this done and the majority of the Mortaleigh army as well.

The spell drew on its host’s natural energy stores, rather than their Magick, if they had any, and provided the host with a heightened immunity system and vastly more efficient healing.

So even with his Magick still depleted, Dean was already well on his way to being back to full health.

In the bed, Castiel stirred, and Dean turned to see him reaching out to the spot where Dean had been lying.

Dean’s lips quirked up and he returned to the bed, slipping in beside Castiel once more.

Dean couldn’t help the way his body tensed when Castiel’s arms wrapped around him, but he calmed himself down, reminding himself that this was Castiel, not Josiah or Alastair touching him.

“Where did you go?” Castiel whispered.

Dean rolled over to face him, observing that only a small bit of blue was peeking out from under Castiel’s lashes.

“Just over to the window,” Dean said. “It’s a beautiful night outside.”

Castiel murmured, “Is it?”

Dean hummed and buried his face in Castiel’s neck, shifting closer. Completely enveloped by Castiel’s arms and the blankets, Dean’s breath started coming quicker. His body sensed that it was surrounded on all sides, and it didn’t like it. Dean tried to control his breathing, but that just seemed to make it worse as he was suddenly conscious of just how harsh it was.

“Tell me about it,” Castiel prompted.

“It’s snowing… Um…” Dean took a deeper breath to get some air into his lungs. “And, um, the sea is still, almost like glass farther away from the shore.” He started pulling back from Castiel. He had tried. He just… couldn’t. Not yet.

Damn that Alastair.

Castiel, however, stopped him with a soothing hand running down his back. “Wait,” he said. “Tell me about the sky.”

“The sky? Uh… The clouds, they were partially covering the moon, but it was still full and bright.”

The hand on his back ceased, simply lying lightly across his body, easily removed should he wish to.

“That sounds lovely. Have you ever visited Lake Gelaisa in the winter?”

He had heard of it. “No,” he admitted.

“You should, one day. It’s deep in the mountains and the passes are treacherous that time of year, but it’s worth the trip. There aren’t any other large lakes on Liscalis, unfortunately.”

Dean’s lungs were no longer struggling to get air and he found his muscles relaxing as he listened to Castiel speak. “I embrace challenges like that,” he said.

“Then we should go.”

Dean pulled his head back just enough to see Castiel’s expression. It was perfectly serious.

Castiel continued, “It’s too late in the season now, but next winter. Around the time of the Winter Festival. We should go. Together.”

Dean swallowed, guilt eating away at him from the (huge) secret he was still hiding. “If you still want to go when that time comes, then definitely.”

Castiel frowned at his admittedly cagey reply, but before he could question him on it, Dean pulled him in for a light kiss.

After the kiss, Castiel’s eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his lips.

Distraction successful, Dean said, “Let’s go back to sleep.”

Castiel yawned in response, making Dean chuckle lowly. Then they settled in and Dean drifted off once more.

Castiel blinked in the grey, early-morning light. He had been awoken by a slight movement in his bed next to him.

He turned his head and glanced down, seeing Dean’s face, still in slumber, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

Dean didn’t blame him for everything that had happened. Not only that, but Dean wanted to try starting a relationship with him.

If it hadn’t been for Gabriel, Samandriel, and Metatron still being missing, Alastair’s threats, and the ever-looming presence of Michael, Castiel would have actually been optimistic about the future.

As it was, even with those issues to consider, Castiel was actually feeling downright cheerful.

Dean was still facing Castiel as he had been when they had fallen asleep the second time. But now Dean’s cheek was resting against his shoulder while one of his hands was splayed across Castiel’s chest. One of Castiel’s arms was pinned under Dean’s body, wrapping around the other man’s waist. And as if he still hadn’t been close enough, one of Dean’s legs was also thrown over Castiel’s left leg.

He happily recalled the later part of the evening before, remembering falling asleep after tending to Dean and being awoken a short while later by his housekeeper at the door, while Dean had still been out cold.

Mirabel had come to ask if he would be coming down for dinner. Unwilling to either wake or leave Dean, Castiel had told her that he wouldn’t require dinner and to portion it out to the servants instead. Then he had fallen asleep with Dean wrapped in his arms once more.

He was actually surprised that they had slept through the entire evening and night, besides that one time Dean had woken up.

He was equally, yet pleasantly, surprised that Dean was still there in bed beside him come morning’s light.

As he had drifted off for the second time the night before, he had wondered if Dean would still be there when he awoke, now that he was free to leave whenever he chose.

Yes, Dean had agreed to stay, at least until he was healed, but he could have awoken and changed his mind. And granted, Castiel hadn’t exactly had a chance to inform his household of the latest developments, so they likely would have tried to stop Dean from leaving. Not that that had ever stopped Dean before.

Then again, between Alastair’s departure and Mirabel, who had seen him and Dean in bed together, not to mention the servants who may have passed by and heard them last evening, word had surely spread that Dean no longer appeared to be a captive.

Careful not to wake Dean, Castiel slipped out of bed, quietly dressed in his casual wear, and made his way to the kitchen where he ordered up a large breakfast. After missing so many meals the last few days, Dean was sure to be famished when he woke up.

That done, he detoured to his bathroom and washed up.

He arrived back at his room just as one of the kitchen maids was coming up with the cart carrying their food. Castiel commandeered the cart from the kitchen maid, dismissing her and wheeling the cart into his bedroom.

Dean was poking around his books. For the first time, Castiel noticed that Dean had managed to find some of his clothes. And Castiel didn’t mind in the least. In fact, he could easily get used to the sight.

Castiel abandoned the cart by the door and approached Dean.

“You can borrow one, if you want,” he offered.

Dean turned, making a face at him. “Thanks, but no thanks. Books are more of S—my brother’s thing. I prefer action. Movement.”

Castiel grinned. “I can tell.”

Dean eyed the cart behind him, taking a deep breath.

“I had hoped to have everything ready before you woke up,” Castiel said.

“I was actually awake from the moment you left the bed,” Dean admitted. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Castiel stepped in closer to Dean. Very much aware of what Dean had suffered through just the day before, and watching for any hint that his actions were unwanted, Castiel brushed a hand down Dean’s side, along the bandages.

Dean accepted the touch without wincing or flinching, for which Castiel was glad. “We should probably change these again this morning,” he said.

“Sure, sure,” Dean said. “But after breakfast. Is that bacon, I smell?” Dean grinned, and Castiel chuckled in response.

Dean stepped around Castiel and made his way to the cart. One by one, he lifted the lids, taking in the vast options presented before him. There were the typical eggs and bacon, but also so much more.

There were thick slices of honeyed ham with just a touch of mustard, fluffy buttermilk pancakes topped with apple slices, maple syrup, and whipped cream, a platter of cold meats and cheeses, still sizzling sausages just waiting to be bitten into, and golden hash browns roasted with onions. There was toast slathered with butter and accompanied by various jellies and jams, and steaming porridge sprinkled generously with brown sugar.

For beverages, there was coffee, black tea, green tea, apple juice, milk, and huge carafe of iced water.

And dessert… That was the best of all. There were waffles dusted with powdered sugar, blueberry scones, strudels, tarts, and yoghurt parfaits.

Dean took a minute to just breathe it all in.

“Trying to make up for all the food I didn’t get to eat before?” Dean teased. “You could feed an army with this spread.”

Castiel grinned knowingly. “It’s all for you—well, both of us, if you’re willing to share. You did, however, miss one.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Share? Even between the two of us, we wouldn’t need to eat for a week if we managed to cram all this into our stomachs. And what do you mean, I missed one?”

“I may have gone slightly overboard,” Castiel admitted, not at all repentant. “And I meant this one here.” He reached around Dean and plucked the lid off a smaller plate, hidden between the baskets of confectionaries.

On the plate, sat a small pie.

“It doesn’t really match the breakfast theme, but I figured it would be appreciated. I hope you like apple. Winter has its limitations, after all.”

Dean was lifting the pie reverently. “I think I just fell in love with you. Marry me?”

Castiel laughed. “Are you talking to me or the pie?”

“The pie, obviously.” Dean picked up a fork and took the pie over to the bed, where he sat down and gazed longingly at it.

Castiel watched, amused. “What? I can’t have a bite?”

Dean glared at him from the bed. “My pie.”

Castiel sighed, as if he was about to do the most difficult thing in the world. “Very well, you may have the entire pie.”

Satisfied, Dean dug in, moaning appreciatively.

Castiel shook his head, amused, and wheeled the cart closer to the bed. He started in on the pancakes and some sausage, while Dean devoured the pie.

They ate in a companionable silence, reminiscent of their hunt in the woods. An event that felt like it had occurred years ago.

Just as Castiel was finishing his sausage, a fork entered his field of vision. Turning his head to the side, he saw Dean grudgingly holding out the last mouthful of his pie.

Wordlessly, Castiel leaned over and ate the piece from Dean’s fork.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Dean mumbled something that may have been, “You’re welcome.”

“Still got room for a proper breakfast?”

“Of course.”

They continued eating until they were both absolutely stuffed and couldn’t eat another bite. While they had eaten, they had talked. It had been the first time they could truly converse without the barrier of Dean’s captivity hanging over them.

At first their banter had been light. Dean had shared stories about his brother and son, whom Castiel never seemed to catch the names of since Dean always just referred to them as ‘my brother’ and ‘my son’. Castiel, in turn, had shared stories about growing up with his own siblings.

“Being the first-born, Michael always knew his destiny. Knew what had been planned for him. Lucifer, Naomi and Metatron were the ambitious ones, but all with different ways of going about it. Lucifer married to achieve greater power. Naomi worked hard and rose among the ranks of the Garrison to eventually command it. And Metatron somehow won over Michael’s ear, becoming his Advisor,” Castiel had spoken. “They are nothing like Gabriel, who is the most carefree out of all of us.”

Dean had nodded, somehow looking contemplative with his mouth stuffed with food.

Castiel continued. “You may not know this, but I also had three other brothers. Uriel died in infancy and Zachariah died in an accident when he was only ten. It was less than a month after Zach’s death that our father disappeared.”

The forkful of food Dean had been bringing to his mouth paused. “Disappeared? I thought King Elyon Seraphon died?”

“Uh…” _Dammit_, Castiel thought. After all these years, never had he slipped up, and suddenly he was spilling his guts to a man from Mortaleigh. “I meant disappeared, as in disappeared from our lives. Since he died.”

Dean hummed. “I’m pretty sure you meant disappeared, as in vanished. As in could be alive or dead.”

Castiel shifted to face Dean fully. “Don’t say anything, please. Promise me this. If Mortaleigh or any of Calistamar’s enemies found out, it could send the entire kingdom into upheaval.”

“So the King of Mortaleigh is probably the last person you want to find out about this, am I right?” Dean’s smile was a little crooked.

“Precisely,” Castiel answered warily.

“Well, your secret is safe with me. I can promise you, the King of Mortaleigh will never learn of this from my lips.”

Castiel was still concerned, but let it slide. “Anyway,” he continued, “after our father… disappeared, Raphael took it hard. He fell in with a bad crowd and made some bad choices that resulted in his death.”

Dean’s face was hard as he said, “I remember that. He died trying to assassinate the King of Mortaleigh.”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted. “Like I said, bad choices. Are you… close with the king then?”

Dean shrugged, gaze off to the side. “Pretty close, I’d say.” He put down his fork and faced Castiel. “I’m sorry you had to lose your brothers.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “And yet, Uriel was a baby I never met, I was only nine when Zach died, and Raphael had distanced himself from us long before his death. So although they were tragic, I was able to move on from them.” Castiel took a breath. “But if Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron die because I wasn’t able to save them… I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Dean hesitated, then pulled Castiel closer until Castiel was leaning into his side. Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and Castiel closed his eyes, taking in the comforting feeling.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost my brother either,” Dean said. “Now that I’m free, I’ll issue you another promise. I will help you find them in any way possible.”

“I’m not sure what you can do at this point, but thank you,” Castiel responded, feeling the weight lift slightly from his shoulders, despite his own words.

Dean wasn’t done yet. “I can also promised you that whatever happened, whether it was someone from Mortaleigh or not, it happened without the knowledge of the king. So we can’t let Michael start a war because of this.”

Castiel frowned. “You know this because you and the king are so close?”

“Um, yes, exactly. Just trust me. I would know if there had been a royally decreed plan to kidnap Calistamar royals and break the treaty.”

Castiel studied Dean’s face and he appeared to be sincere. Castiel could accept that Dean believed that, but for Castiel’s part, he still held some doubts about the king. After all, he didn’t know the precise nature of Sir Dean Winchester’s relationship with King Dean Campbell, and he doubted the king would just tell anyone in his court, knight or not, of such a world-altering plan.

Even still, Castiel said, “I know I’ll have to focus my attention in a new direction to find out what happened to my family members—although, I have no idea what that direction might be yet.”

After that, their conversation had turned to lighter topics once more.

Once they had finished eating, Castiel had changed Dean’s bandages. Dean complained heartily the entire time, claiming that it was unnecessary and he would heal fine. Castiel was able to confirm that his cuts, abraded wrists, and bruises were healing nicely, but bandaged him up again nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

And the longer he could keep Dean bandaged up, hopefully the longer Dean would stay. Although, he knew Dean would have to leave at some point to return to his own home, he hoped they would stay in contact and continue to get to know each other. Visits, he was sure, would be frequent.

He was already looking forward to taking that trip to Lake Gelaisa.

The first aid task out of the way, Castiel caught Dean staring out the window, something Castiel had noticed him doing a number of times during breakfast.

Dean was probably feeling cooped up in here. In fact, Castiel was also feeling the desire to get outside in the fresh air.

“Do you want to go for a ride?” he asked.

Dean turned to him with a wide grin. “Definitely.”

One their way to the stable, the servants they passed regarded Dean with suspicion, despite Castiel having passed along the word that Dean was now a guest when he had ordered breakfast. Castiel figured it would take them time to get used to the idea, since Dean had just been a captive.

They saddled Baby and Jimmy, who were also grateful to be going out for a ride. Then they headed for one of Castiel’s favourite riding trails.

Once the horses were trotting easily down the trail, Castiel asked Dean about Ashbourne, Mortaleigh’s capital, and Dean waxed poetic for quite some time about the city where he had grown up.

“I’d love to see it for myself,” Castiel admitted.

That crooked smile appeared on Dean’s face again. “You’re welcome any time,” he said.

Before Castiel could question him about that odd expression, Dean was asking him about Castiel’s childhood in Granamar and how he had ended up with an estate in the countryside.

“I have visited Granamar a few times, but never saw you there,” Dean said. “I can only assume you must have been here.”

“I only actually lived in the palace with my mother until my father disappeared. After that, my mother, who had been his third consort and not very high in the court, moved us both out here to the countryside. This estate has been in my mother’s family for generations, from before Calistamar was even Calistamar.”

Dean nodded. “That would explain it then.”

“I doubt you would have seen me anyway, even if I had been living there permanently. Most of my duties kept me in the palace, even in recent years, so I am rarely out and about in the city itself.”

“Perhaps,” Dean replied mysteriously. “And your mother, she’s not here now?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, she passed away when I was sixteen and I’ve lived here alone ever since. Well, besides the household servants, naturally. My mother had always been rather sickly, and I have long suspected that she had simply been holding onto life until I was old enough to stand on my own in society.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman. I can see where you get your determination and stubbornness from.”

“_My_ determination and stubbornness? You’re one to talk,” Castiel said, smiling.

Dean chuckled. “I’ll admit, my father taught me to be tough and strong. Independent, so I didn’t have to rely on anyone besides myself. But I still wish that my mother had been around to teach me other things. Important things that could have helped me, and perhaps shown me different ways to handle things than the way my father did.”

Castiel longed to learn more about Dean’s past and the events that had shaped him, but he could see that Dean’s expression had become clouded from speaking of his parents, so Castiel changed the subject to Dean’s experience hunting. Something they both had in common.

During the entirety of the ride, he avoided the single question burning a hole in his gut: How long was Dean willing to stay?


	7. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

From the lowest of lows, to the highest of highs. The last twenty-four hours had been a complete turnaround for Dean.

He still found himself acting a little jumpy at times, but so long as he focused on the present, Dean had never felt lighter. It was if a weight that he had been carrying around for years had been lifted off his shoulders.

There, with Castiel, away from Ashbourne, away from Granamar, far from all the politics and concerns that came with being a king, Dean finally felt free. Something he hadn’t felt since Mary had died.

This feeling was exactly why he was having such a hard time revealing the truth to Castiel and risking it all.

Sure, he and Castiel had spoken of the missing Seraphons, another hard topic, but to Dean, it all felt at a distance.

From the back of his mind came the reminder that this was only a temporary escape from reality, and that the weight of rule would return the moment he left Castiel’s estate or Castiel found out the truth, but Dean was unwilling to let the present opportunity pass.

The unspoken understanding between himself and Castiel was that Dean would depart once he had healed enough to do so. If he were being honest, Dean could have left that morning. As Castiel had undoubtedly noticed as he had been changing his bandages, he healed fast thanks to the spell. This was also evidenced by the fact that he had been able to stay out on horseback for most of the day without tiring.

And yet, Dean justified staying longer for three reasons.

First, he knew that Mortaleigh was in good hands with Sam. So there was no need for him to rush back for that reason.

Second, he wanted to do as promised and help Castiel find his family. As the king, yes, he could make inquiries of his own from Mortaleigh, but he wanted to ensure that all options were exhausted from here first. Not that he had any idea what those options could be… But anyway.

And finally, he didn’t want to leave Castiel so soon.

Dean had no clue where their relationship could possibly go, and more than likely it would end the moment he had to return or Castiel found out who he was, despite their best intentions and plans. So perhaps it was selfish of him, but he just couldn’t bring himself to let Castiel go just yet.

He had decided that he would just take the punches life threw at him as they came, and would deal with the consequences then. In the meantime, he just wanted to enjoy the time that he had while he had it.

He wanted to get to know this enigmatic man more, every piece of his personality and every inch of his body.

With his mind set, Dean was in a bright, happy mood when they returned to the house in the late afternoon, after their ride.

After they had removed their snow-crusted boots and coats in the entryway, Castiel picked at his clothing. “I think my clothes got damp from the snow,” he said, shivering slightly.

Dean agreed, feeling the chill in his borrowed outfit.

“Mirabel,” Castiel called.

The housekeeper popped her head into the hall. “Yes, my lord?”

Castiel asked her, “Can you please have two baths drawn?”

“Ah,” Mirabel said, shifting on her feet. “We only have enough water boiled at the moment for one. The rest is being used for dinner preparations. I will boil some more, but it will be a while.”

Dean raised an eyebrow suggestively at Castiel. “I think one should be enough.”

Pink bloomed on Castiel’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mirabel. One is fine.”

Suddenly, Dean was looking forward to bath time.

While the tub was being filled, Dean and Castiel retired to Castiel’s bedroom to remove Dean’s bandages. They would only get soggy from the bathwater and prevent Dean from cleaning the area underneath.

Once Dean was unraveled from his wrappings, Castiel stared down at his chest.

Feeling self-conscious, Dean said, “There’s a spell to erase the scars. Once my Magick returns, I’ll be doing that.”

Castiel’s eyes lifted to his. “I was simply examining the state of the cuts, but I’m glad to hear that you won’t be forced to live with this reminder of what you had to endure.” His eyes turned to the side. “I only regret the part I played in allowing it to happen in the first place.”

Dean shook his head. “You did what you could.”

“I could have done more sooner, had I been braver,” Castiel insisted.

“But at what cost?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

“Exactly. Now stop blaming yourself and go check if the bath is ready.”

“Bossy,” Castiel chided with a small smile.

Dean grinned. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Castiel’s eyes sparkled, which made Dean happy.

“What about these?” Castiel reached out and touched one of the scars on Dean’s hand, then another on his forearm.

“Those are marks of honor or daring.”

Castiel cocked his head, eyebrow raised.

“Okay, okay. Some are just a funny story. But each one is a tale, a piece of my history. So I’ve chosen to leave them there. This,” he gestured at his chest, “is a little excessive to keep intact.”

Castiel nodded his understanding.

Dean continued, “But I don’t want to erase it completely. It is… a part of my history too now. So I’ll keep…” He trailed off, peering down at this own chest.

Which one, which one.

Obviously he wasn’t going to keep Alastair’s name. He would die before he let that man brand him with his signature.

He also didn’t want any of the crude drawings to remain.

After another moment of searching, he said, “This one.” He pointed at a smaller word scrawled in the place where the bruise, now yellow, was in the process of healing.

“Pain,” Castiel read aloud.

“Figured it was appropriate,” Dean said. Castiel simply nodded.

Castiel considered Dean’s chest again. “What if I tried with Grace?”

“Tried what with Grace?”

“The spell to erase scars. Would it work with Grace?”

Would it? Dean had no idea. “I supposed you could try.” Not that he really wanted Castiel to try. If Castiel succeeded, and he was healed completely, what would he do then? Was Castiel trying to hurry along his departure?

No, Dean didn’t believe that. He had learned that lesson already. Castiel didn’t have a hidden agenda. If it seemed like he wanted to heal Dean’s scars because he felt bad for Dean, then that’s all it was.

“Tell me what to do,” Castiel said.

“Well, uh.” Dean thought for a moment, wondering how best to explain it. “So with most healing spells, which I know you have some here, the body already knows what to do. So you’re just helping it move things along faster. But in this case, the body doesn’t know how to heal away the scars, so it needs a little additional instruction.”

“So it must require a lot of focus,” Castiel inferred.   
“Yes, exactly. And not a small amount of Magick—or Grace, in this case—either.”

Castiel flexed his hand, studying it as if he was seeing something Dean wasn’t. “I believe I should have enough Grace now.”

“Okay, um. Then all you need to do is summon your Grace into your fingers and trace them along the scar, while focusing on telling the skin to return to normal. It’s all about willpower.”

Castiel focused on his hand and the tip of his index finger flared with a blue-white light. “Let’s give it a try then.”

Dean swallowed nervously as Castiel’s finger drew closer to the first scar. He closed his eyes.

There was heat where Castiel’s finger touched his chest, but it was a warm heat, like holding your hands up to a roaring fire. The point of heat moved along his chest, tracing where Alastair’s scalpel had cut the day before.

“It’s working,” he heard Castiel say.

Dean cracked open his eyes and peered down. Alastair’s name now read ‘air’. Where the rest had been was just smooth, unblemished skin. Dean laughed in amazement.

“You did it on your first try. I can’t believe it.”

Castiel’s head dipped. “This level of focus is nothing compared to what’s needed to dive into someone’s mind. For me, it’s really instructing the skin on what to do that’s the tougher part, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it.”

“Not every Grace-user in Calistamar is this skilled though. Why has Michael been keeping you hidden under a rock all these years when you have this kind of skill?”

“I don’t think _King_ Michael really knows. It’s not like I’ve ever really had the opportunity or need to demonstrate.”

“Er, yes, well, King Michael really missed out. His loss, my gain.”

Castiel tilted his head at Dean, eyes narrowing. His gaze dropped to the black bands around Dean’s upper biceps. Dean’s breath caught. Castiel’s mouth opened.

“Your bath is ready, my lord,” Mirabel stated from the doorway.

Castiel’s gaze shifted and Dean’s breath escaped in a rush.

Dean said rapidly, “We can continue this later. Let’s go get warm and clean.” He stood up and began heading for the door. “Come on, before the water gets cold.”

Castiel seemed ready to stand his ground and insist on continuing their conversation, but the moment passed and he followed Dean out into the hall.

They entered the bathroom together, which was the point when Dean realized what he had implied by telling Castiel to come with him.

Sure, it made logical sense for them to bathe at the same time and Dean himself had even implied it earlier, and from the looks of it, Castiel’s tub was just big enough to fit them both, but faced with the reality of actually doing so had Dean pausing in the doorway.

“I—I can wait until you’re done,” he offered.

Castiel looked back at him with an incredulous expression. “It’s just a bath.”

“I know that. I just—” Just what? Just thought it might lead to something more? Just didn’t know if he could handle this level of intimacy despite his earlier confidence?

Somehow bathing together was so much scarier to Dean than fooling around under the sheets.

Castiel stopped unbuttoning his shirt and approached Dean. “I promise nothing will happen that you don’t want to. All you have to do is tell me you don’t like something, and I’ll stop.”

“I know that. I do.” Dean laughed nervously. “It’s myself I don’t trust. How I might react after… after Alastair.” Dean’s last words trailed off practically to a whisper.

Castiel’s blue eyes softened. “It’s okay if you do react, Dean. In fact, I encourage you to let me see exactly what you’re feeling. Perhaps then I can help you overcome it.” Dean still hesitated. “You want to see where this could lead us, right?” Dean nodded. “Well, this is one way to start. By trusting me to help you through this.”

“Alright.”

Castiel smiled and stepped forward again, into Dean’s personal space. “Alright then.” And then Castiel waited for Dean to make the first move.

Hesitantly at first, Dean’s hands casually grasped the bottom edge of Castiel’s shirt, ignoring the half-undone buttons, and began lifting it. Castiel raised his arms, letting the material slide over his body, and once the shirt was removed, Dean tossed it on the floor.

Dean admired Castiel’s toned abs and strong shoulders. He started to move in, to pull Castiel into a kiss, when Castiel stopped him with a hand on his upper bicep. Dean flinched.

At Dean’s reaction, Castiel didn’t withdraw completely, but lifted his hand until his fingers were just playing with the edge of the band there. “You should remove these too.”

_Crap._ “Uh, the bands stay,” Dean said to Castiel’s chest.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Castiel’s eyes glinted teasingly. “Are you hiding something from me, Dean?”

Dean’s laugh might have been a little hysterical right then.

Castiel frowned. “Wait, are you actually hiding something?”

“Um…”

“I thought we had gotten past the secrets.”

“Er, well like I said before, a man always had his secrets,” Dean tried to joke, hand scratching the back of his neck.

Castiel was not amused. “But is this a secret that I should know?”

“Uh…”

“Is it significant? Potentially life-altering?”

“Um…”

“Is it about my family?”

“No! Dammit, no. I swear. This is only about me.”

“Dean.”

Dean sucked in a breath and took Castiel’s hands in his. Castiel looked ready to tear his hands away, but allowed it. For now.

“Please, Cas. Just… give me a little more time. Just a… a couple more days. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll tell you everything. I just… I can’t… I don’t want… _Dammit_.”

Castiel’s glare disappeared, but now he just looked sad. “Okay, Dean,” he said. “Two days.”

Dean brought one of Castiel’s hands up to his lips and kissed his palm. “Thank you,” he breathed with relief.

So he had bought himself some time. Two days and then he had to come clean, for better or for worse.

“You really should take them off to clean properly though, so I’ll give you some privacy. You can bathe first,” Castiel said.

Then he left Dean alone in the bathroom, suddenly feeling very, very worried.

When Castiel returned to his bedroom after his bath, Dean was standing half-naked by the fireplace, leaning against the mantle and sipping from a glass of brandy. The bottle and a second glass rested on the mantle.

Seeing Castiel enter, Dean waved him over. “I asked Mirabel to have it sent up,” he explained. “She said it was your favourite. I prefer whiskey myself, but I have to admit, this is pretty good.”

“I should hope so. It was quite rare and expensive.”

Dean paused in his swallow, nearly choking himself.

As he coughed, Castiel laughed. “I’m only teasing. I mean it is pricey, but nothing outrageous.”

Eyes watering, Dean stared at him. “You…” Then he placed the glass on the mantle and lunged.

Still laughing, Castiel quickly side-stepped, causing Dean to stumble past him.

“Hey,” Dean shouted. He spun and his eyes locked onto Castiel, who had moved closer to the bed.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and Castiel watched at his muscles bunched, waiting for the perfect moment. Just as Dean sprung forward, Castiel side-stepped once more. Except Dean had lunged to Castiel’s left, and to the right was the bed, which Castiel suddenly found himself crashing into.

He whirled around, only to find Dean had only feinted left, and was coming up behind him.

“Gotcha,” Dean said roughly. With his body, he pressed Castiel down into the mattress until Castiel was sitting on it and his feet left the floor. Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist and his arms around his neck, humming in satisfaction.

He was still somewhat mad at Dean for keeping secrets, but this playfulness in Dean… He found that he was a sucker for it, unable to resist.

He decided that he could be mad at Dean in two days if he didn’t tell him as promised. Until then, he just wanted to enjoy this.

Dean shuddered as Castiel’s limbs embraced him where he stood beside the bed, so Castiel ran his hands down Dean’s arms instead, murmuring soothingly as he did so. His legs, he left in place, but loosely.

Dean rocked into him in response, head finding the crook of Castiel’s neck.

“It’s okay,” Castiel murmured. “Show me everything.”

Dean shuddered again, then his lips were on Castiel’s neck, sucking at the sensitive skin there. Castiel hummed, tilting his head back to grant Dean better access.

Castiel’s hands dove into Dean’s hair, still damp from his bath. His own hair was even wetter, and he could feel Dean licking up the droplets of water that had trailed down his neck.

He wanted to taste Dean too. Castiel leaned up, letting his hands slide down, so that he could reach Dean’s jaw and neck with his own lips, tongue, and teeth.

He only realized what he had done when Dean gasped, and not in a pleasant way. Castiel’s hands had drifted to Dean’s chest, brushing over the newly formed scars. _Shit._

“I’m so sorry!” Castiel gasped out, pulling back immediately.

Dean grunted. “It’s okay. It didn’t hurt. It just… caught me by surprise, I guess.”

Castiel thought for a moment. “I have an idea.”

Dean crooked his head.

“Just get on the bed, and I’ll show you.”

“Now who’s bossy?”

Castiel pretended to swat at Dean, who moved out of the way and climbed onto the bed.

“Lie down,” Castiel commanded.

Dean did.

“Now, I’m going to straddle you.”

“I don’t need the play-by-play. I’m not that delicate.”

Castiel ignored that. He moved onto Dean, his knees on either side of Dean’s hips, groin hovering over Dean’s, but not touching. Not yet.

“Now,” Castiel continued. “I want you to close your eyes and just focus on what you feel.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but complied. Once he was settled, Castiel summoned his Grace to his fingertips.

Without touching Dean in any other way, Castiel reached out, focusing, and ran his fingers down one of the scars left by Alastair’s work.

Dean flinched.

“Just focus on the feeling, not what it’s doing,” Castiel reminded him. Then he refocused on controlling his Grace, adding a little something extra that he hadn’t before.

He could tell when Dean felt it. A shiver ran through his muscles and his eyes snapped open.

“What is that?” Dean rasped.

“Controlling what the body tells the brain isn’t much different from controlling the brain itself. I can only do it in small doses, just like this, though. It’s a little something I discovered when trying to help control my mother’s pain without tampering with her mind all the time.”

“How does all of Liscalis not know about this? This is awesome!”

Castiel shrugged, feeling sheepish. “Like I said, I can only do it a bit at a time and it’s difficult to do right. There’s really not much use for it.”

“Not much use for it? I’d beg to differ.”

That had Castiel smiling and running his fingers down another scar, telling Dean’s nerve endings that they were feeling complete and utter pleasure, while he simultaneously used Dean’s previous instructions to heal the scar itself.

Dean groaned, eyes falling closed once more. “Damn, you have skilled hands.”

Castiel continued his work. As he did so, Dean got more and more restless. His head was turned to the side, his hands were clutching at the sheets, and his hips shifted constantly, searching for something.

“Cas,” Dean moaned. “Need more.”

Castiel leaned over and suckled at Dean’s earlobe. “Like this?”

Dean shook his head. “More.” His hips bucked up, but Castiel kept space between them.

He traced a fingertip down Dean’s now unblemished chest, except for the older scars and the single word ‘pain’, moving from freckle to freckle until he reach Dean’s nipple, which he gave a tug. “What about this?”

Dean growled. “More,” he demanded. His head tossed to the other side, eyes firmly closed.

“Hm,” Castiel said, as if considering. Then he took Dean’s pants in hand, Dean’s erection already straining at the crotch, and pulled them downward, moving back to remove them completely.

Dean wasn’t wearing any underwear.

When he returned to Dean after depositing the pants on the floor, his lips found that sensitive spot where Dean’s thigh met his groin. He gave the skin there a nip and a kiss, while his eyes lifted to Dean’s face. “Perhaps this?”

Dean was gazing down at him with desperation in his green eyes. “Castiel,” Dean growled warningly.

Castiel simply smiled up at him.

Before Dean could protest further, however, he crawled back up Dean’s body until they were level with each other once more.

Dean took full advantage of that to grasp Castiel’s hips and pull him downward while Dean thrust upward.

Castiel moaned.

“Finally,” Dean said.

Castiel couldn’t restrain himself anymore. Even though he still had his own pants on, the feel of Dean’s hardness against his own had him rubbing and grinding against Dean in turn.

This continued on for a while as the pressure inside of Castiel rose and rose. Both his and Dean’s breaths were coming harshly, and if all the blood wasn’t rushing southward, Castiel was sure that all he would be able to hear would be his heart racing.

“I want you inside me,” Dean half-whispered, half-moaned in his ear.

Castiel lost his rhythm and had to stop and breathe for a moment to collect himself, trying not to release right then and there.

“Have you… Before have you…” Castiel tried to speak. It was hard.

“No,” Dean replied, understanding what Castiel was trying to ask nonetheless.

Castiel swore.

Dean moved and Castiel watched his arm reach out to the nightstand to pick up the jar of lubricant from where Castiel had discarded it the night before. He placed it in Castiel’s hand. “Then prepare me,” he said.

Castiel could only nod.

He removed his own pants and then moved back down Dean’s body, fingers trailing down Dean’s sides and kissing and sucking at any spot he could reach. He just couldn’t get enough of the taste Dean’s skin.

When he was far enough down, he extracted a generous helping of lubricant, spreading it onto the fingers of his right hand.

Before using his fingers, however, Castiel dipped his head and took Dean’s erection in his mouth. The weight of it and the taste of Dean’s precum leaking from the tip had him reaching down and squeezing the base of his own erection to stop himself from coming early.

He could only take in a few inches, but it was enough to make Dean cry out and buck, before Castiel released his own erection to steady Dean’s hips. Castiel withdrew slightly, sliding his tongue along the slit in the head. He licked his lips, then dove back down for another taste.

Simultaneously, Castiel pressed a finger lightly against Dean’s rear passage, massaging at the ring of muscle there until it gave and his lubricated index finger entered Dean’s body.

“Castiel,” Dean groaned. With mounting pleasure, Castiel watched as Dean’s stomach muscles jumped and quivered.

Castiel flexed his finger, pulling it partially out, then pushing it back in. He was determined to make this as enjoyable for Dean as possible.

Looking up from his position, Castiel saw Dean’s lust-filled green eyes peering down at him. Castiel hummed around his cock and Dean’s head thrashed from side to side, mouth open in a wide ‘o.’

With satisfaction, he observed Dean’s hands grasping and releasing the sheet over and over again as pleasure surely coursed through him.

“Castiel, keep going,’ Dean demanded, his voice rough, and Castiel realized he had stalled at the sight before him.

Making Dean writhe in pleasure was apparently an aphrodisiac to Castiel. A shudder ran through him, straight to his own cock, and he greedily went back to paying loving attention to Dean’s erection, while also inserting a second finger into Dean.

Dean hissed at the additional intrusion, so Castiel paused to let him adjust while continuing to lick and suck at the cock before him. As soon as Dean’s inner muscles had relaxed once more, Castiel began scissoring his fingers and added more lube.

Dean shivered. “Cold.”

Castiel pulled his mouth from Dean’s erection and kissed his hip apologetically. Continuing to distract Dean with his mouth, Castiel continued to use the fingers of one hand to stretch Dean while the other reached up to play with his nipples. He wasn’t taking any chances of hurting Dean this way.

But he also knew something that would help. Castiel crooked his fingers just so inside Dean, and Dean suddenly shouted out as a spasm rocked his body. Precum bubbled up from the tip of his erection.

Castiel grinned, pleased.

He laved around Dean’s balls as he stroked that particular spot inside of Dean, causing the other man to gasp and twist in pleasure.

“Cas,” Dean rasped. “I’m gonna…”

Castiel took the warning to heart and quickly backed off. Dean cried out in protest, making Castiel chuckle.

When he determined that the risk of Dean’s orgasm had passed, Castiel licked the length of Dean’s hardness and added a third finger to stretch Dean further. Castiel wasn’t small by any means.

“Dammit, Cas. _Hurry up._” Impatient man.

Finally, Castiel withdrew his fingers and slicked up his own erection.

Then he moved back up Dean’s body, kissing gently along the way, just as he had on the way down.

When he was hovering over Dean, Dean gazed up at him with those hungry green eyes, flushed across his face and chest. Castiel could see the still-raging desire in his eyes and feel it in the full erection, the tip of which was grazing his stomach.

“Are you sure?” Castiel inquired. As much as he hoped it wouldn’t be the case, if there was any sign of hesitation in Dean, this wouldn’t go any further that day.

“Do it, please,” Dean insisted firmly. “Enter me.”

Castiel wasn’t about to protest.

With his eyes locked on Dean’s, watching for any sign of pain or discomfort, Castiel positioned himself. Slowly, he thrust forward.

The tip of his hardness met slight resistance at first, but then the head breached the ring of muscle and Castiel groaned as he was enveloped by Dean’s tight heat.

He moved in another couple inches before Dean closed his eyes and turned his head slightly to the side, a sure sign he was hiding pain.

Castiel froze in place and cupped Dean’s cheek, gently turning his head back for a kiss. He sucked Dean’s lower lip into his mouth, just as Dean had done to him before, and nibbled on it.

The kiss continued on and on. Castiel never wanted it to end.

Then Dean breathed into his mouth, “More. Need more.”

Castiel obliged, pushing forward until every inch of him was finally, completely inside. Then he had to stop for his own sake, burying his face in Dean’s neck as he tried, once again, not to come immediately.

Dean groaned and reached down to grasp Castiel’s hips, pulling him closer, moving Castiel inside him.

“Dammit, Cas. _Move._”

“Dean,” Castiel keened. Then he withdrew nearly completely from Dean’s body and thrust back home.

Dean gasped, but Castiel could see that it was a gasp of pleasure, not pain.

So he drove in again. And again. Trying to find that sweet spot in Dean and fighting his own orgasm.

Dean made a small sound of objection and Castiel stuttered to a stop before realizing that he had accidently gotten too close and brushed against his chest against Dean’s, likely making him feel trapped.

Castiel immediately reared back. “Are you okay? Do we need to stop? We should stop.”

Dean growled, “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Castiel Seraphon. I’m fine.”

Castiel frowned though, considered for a moment, and then shifted. Without withdrawing from Dean, he moved Dean’s legs up until they were resting on Castiel’s shoulders, giving Castiel full range to thrust, while successfully giving Dean room to breathe without feeling smothered.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” Dean grumbled.

Castiel did a trial movement, and immediately knew that the new position had allowed him to hit Dean’s prostate dead on as a full body shudder when through Dean.

Castiel drove forward again and picked up speed until the entire bed was rocking with each powerful thrust. Dean was moaning almost non-stop below him, and his hands had reached up to grasp the headboard, holding himself steady.

Seeing Dean writhing in pleasure proved to be Castiel’s undoing because only a few short moments later, he was coming hard deep inside of Dean.

A second later Dean followed, crying out with his orgasm.

Castiel’s body was shaking as he tried to hold himself above Dean. After the waves of orgasm subsided, Castiel released Dean’s legs and slowly withdrew from his body, causing Dean to moan softly in response.

Castiel lay down beside Dean, their arms touching, and he didn’t want to move from that spot.

Unfortunately, there were a couple things that needed to be done.

Dean spoke up. “So much for being Mr. Preparedness, Cas. I’d offer to get the washcloths, but I don’t think I can walk right now.”

Castiel smirked at the ceiling. “I’ll get them,” he said, sitting up.

“Good, good,” Dean responded. “I’m just going to lie here. Not moving.”

Still grinning, Castiel fetched the necessary supplies and returned. After cleaning both of them up, he tugged on his pants, tossing Dean’s at him, just before they heard a knock on the door.

Castiel answered it while Dean struggled with the pants.

Mirabel stood there. “Dinner is served, my lord.” She blushed at his half-dressed state and the sound of Dean cursing his pants coming from inside the room.

“Thank you, Mirabel. We’ll be down in a minute.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

After dinner Dean and Castiel were in Castiel’s study, enjoying an after-dinner drink by the fire and watching the sun set through the large windows.

Castiel had been describing one of his favourite books to Dean who was getting just as much entertainment from Castiel’s words as his obvious pleasure in telling them.

The casual mood was dimmed slightly when they were interrupted by a harried-looking man. Based on the insignia on his clothing, he was messenger from Mortaleigh’s royal palace. Mirabel, looking angry, was hot on his heels.

The messenger was focused on Castiel, but the moment his eyes slid to the side and saw Dean sitting there, they widened exponentially. The messenger, who Dean abruptly recognized as Kevin, one of his and Sam’s personal envoys, stumbled and his jaw dropped.

Dean mentally cursed.

Castiel observed the messenger, frowning at his expression. From his position behind Castiel, Dean shot Kevin his fiercest, narrow-eyed glare and held a finger to his lips. Kevin visibly gulped and shut his mouth, purposefully refocusing on Castiel.

“A message for you, my Lord!” Kevin said eagerly. Thrusting out the slightly crumpled letter he had been carrying.

“My apologies, my Lord,” Mirabel called, jogging up behind Kevin, panting. “This one—he insisted on delivering his letter personally. I told him that I would introduce him properly first, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Castiel stood and took the letter from Kevin. Dean stood as well. “Thank you, Mirabel,” Castiel said. “I will handle it from here. You may return to your duties.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Mirabel harrumphed, but turned and left the study.

Castiel’s head turned in Dean’s direction with a questioning look, but Dean had already schooled his face back into a neutral expression. He shrugged, as if he had no idea what was going on, which was mostly true.

As Castiel broke the seal and opened the letter, Kevin snuck a glance at Dean, who shook his head at him. Kevin looked confused, not surprisingly, but obediently turned back to Castiel.

_Why did it have to be Kevin?_ Dean cursed. _Why couldn’t you have sent some nondescript messenger who wouldn’t recognize me on sight? Really, Sam?_

He hated having to actively hide this from Castiel. Two days, he reminded himself. That’s all he had left. Then for better or worse, Castiel would know.

“So what’s the letter about?” Dean asked after Castiel reached the bottom of the letter. “It seems urgent.”

“It’s from Mortaleigh, branded with the royal seal,” Castiel began.

Kevin piped up, speaking directly to Dean. “I was instructed to deliver it directly into the hands of Lord Castiel and no one else. I went to the palace first, but then I was told he wasn’t there anymore. So I had to ride all the way here immediately to find him.”

Dean gave Kevin a hard look, and the messenger looked down, chastened. Luckily, Castiel’s attention was still on the letter and he didn’t seem to notice Kevin’s odd behaviour or their silent exchanges.

Castiel continued speaking. “To preface this, Michael had sent the King of Mortaleigh a letter when we first captured you, explaining the situation and requesting an official response to the events that had transpired,” he said to Dean. “As far as I know, Michael never heard back. So I also sent a letter myself the morning after we arrived here. This is the answer to that second letter.”

“Can you read it to me?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t say much. It reads:

_“Greetings Lord Castiel Seraphon of the Kingdom of Calistamar,_

_I thank you for your update on the status of events occurring in Granamar. I am grateful to hear that the Mortaleigh knight, Sir Dean Winchester, who has been arrested and accused of such heinous crimes, has not been harmed in any way. I hope this continues to be the case._

_Although Mortaleigh would never presume to interfere in matters of law within Calistamar, I can personally assure you that Sir Dean Winchester played no part in the unfortunate events that have befallen your family._

_In addition, the Crown officially denies any knowledge of any plot to kidnap Calistamar royals, or any other residents of the Calistamar kingdom._

_Therefore, it is my expectation that the captive, Sir Dean Winchester, be released immediately. Upon his release and safe return across the border to Mortaleigh, the Crown will do everything in its power to assist with the recovery of the missing persons in any way it can._

_I wish you the best of luck in these trying times. May the Peace Treaty continue to endure._

_Sincerely,_

_Samuel Campbell, Crown Prince of Mortaleigh”_

As Castiel read Sam’s signature line, he had an odd look on his face. “It also includes a document, also stamped with Mortaleigh’s royal seal, allowing four Calistamar soldiers and two Calistamar messengers into Mortaleigh. It says that they are to be chosen expressly by myself, and it is solely for the purpose of searching for the missing royals. Upon crossing the border, they are to be escorted by an equal amount, no more and no less, of Mortaleigh soldiers and messengers for the duration of the search.”

“That seems all very… well thought out. Very reasonable. Every detail considered.” Typical Sam, Dean thought. He was slightly impressed.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “It’s all very diplomatic and neighborly without being overly submissive or aggressive.”

Kevin interrupted, asking, “Do you have a response?”

His attention still on the letter, Castiel absently responded, “Yes.” Then he gestured for Kevin to wait there. He moved over to his desk in the far corner of the room.

The second the two of them were out of Castiel’s sightline, Kevin immediately dropped into a low bow. “My King,” he said reverently.

Dean immediately shushed him. They were out of Castiel’s hearing range so long as they whispered, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Stand up,” Dean hissed. “He could turn or anybody could walk in.”

“What are you doing here? In Calistamar?” Kevin whispered, looking bewildered. “Everyone in Mortaleigh thinks that you’re on a retreat to your seaside estate.”

That had Dean chuckling softly. Leave it to Sam to expertly cover for his continued absence so that not even his own messengers suspected otherwise.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean whispered back, brushing it off. “I’m fine and I’ll return when I’m ready.”

“But—But,” Kevin stammered. “The Dean Winchester in the letter… Is that supposed to be you?”

“Quiet,” Dean warned. “And yes, but as you can see, I’m no longer a captive.” He held up his unbound wrists.

Kevin nodded. “I can see that.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, head bent over the desk as he wrote.

“I do actually have one request of you.” Kevin nodded eagerly. “Tell Sam that I’m free and well, but that I’m going to stay away a bit longer.”

Kevin frowned. “How long will you be gone?”

Dean’s eyes sought out Castiel once more, watching him wistfully. “Hopefully as long as he lets me.”

“But—” Kevin began, but Dean interrupted him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If there are any issues, either I’ll hear of them or Sam can send you back, and I’ll return sooner.”

Kevin looked relieved at that, but still said, “Prince Sam won’t be pleased with that message.”

Dean looked him in the eyes. “Well, that’s my decision. Are you going to argue with your king?”

Kevin’s eyes widened. “No! Of course not!”

“Shhhh!” Dean said.

Kevin bowed his head. “Sorry!”

Dean sighed.

A chair creaked and Dean looked around to see Castiel approaching with a sealed letter. He handed it to Kevin. “Only deliver this directly into the hands of the Prince.”

Kevin nodded. “I understand.”

It didn’t go unnoticed by Dean that Castiel had specified Sam and not the king as the destination of his letter. But then, Sam had been the one to write the first letter, so perhaps that was the reason why.

“Would you like some refreshment and additional supplies before your journey back?” Castiel offered graciously.

Kevin made a sad face. “I’d love to, but I have to be on my way. The Prince instructed me to return immediately. I will accept some supplies though.”

“Of course. My housekeeper should be in the kitchen. She’ll be able to get you what you require.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Kevin said, bowing to Castiel. He hesitated, glancing at Dean, but made the smart choice to just leave.

Just the two of them again, Castiel turned to Dean. “Let’s go around back. There’s something I want to ask you.”

Dean followed Castiel as they dressed and made their way outside. Their boots crunched in the snow as nervousness rose like bile from his stomach into his throat.

At least Castiel hadn’t said, “We need to talk.” Those dreaded words.

The sea had gotten rough again, Dean observed as they rounded the house. Salty spray hit his face as it was flung airborne by the crashing of the waves against the cliff side below.

Castiel walked up to the edge and stopped, facing the sea and pounding surf. Dean watched him stand like that for a good minute. Castiel’s actions were strange and he was being oddly quiet, which had Dean freaking out.

Dean stamped his boots to keep the blood circulating, wondering—and dreading—what Castiel was going to ask him.

Castiel had allowed him two days, and Dean was loathing the idea of cutting his time with Castiel before he learned the truth short, but if Castiel already suspected something, perhaps it would be best if Dean told him now.

As Dean opened his mouth to start explaining, however, Castiel turned away from the cliff and Dean saw his expression: tight and closed off.

_Shit._

Then Castiel spoke. “Twice in my life, I’ve met King Dean Campbell of Mortaleigh.” Dean swallowed. “The first time was when we were both infants, each only a year old, so I don’t remember anything. All I know is that it was at the signing of the Peace Treaty between Calistamar and Mortaleigh after the Blight War had finally ended. Of course, he wasn’t the king then, just the crown prince.”

“Cas, wait. I—” Dean started to speak again, but Castiel held up a hand for silence.

Castiel continued, “The second time happened three years later when Queen Mary Campbell died in the fire. It was Prince Dean Campbell’s coronation as he ascended to the throne of Mortaleigh. His father, John Winchester, was to act as Regent. Since the treaty was still freshly minted, my father and Michael had been invited to the coronation, and my father had thought that it would be a good learning experience for his youngest son to join them.”

Dean’s heart was beginning to race. His chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vise and he couldn’t get enough air. The back of his neck started to sweat.

He knew that Castiel could tell that he was getting nervous, but he couldn’t help it. He longed to speak up, to tell Castiel the truth now, but Castiel kept on speaking, not letting him get a word in.

“I vaguely remember the ceremony itself as being rather boring. As a four-year-old, of course, I had no interest in politics, and only my father’s restraining hand kept me from squirming during the lengthy process. What I remember most clearly, however, is what happened after the ceremony, during the ensuing celebrations.”

This wasn’t what he had feared might happen—that someone would tell Castiel before he could. This was so much worse.

“Myself, the new king, and a few other high-born children of Mortaleigh’s court who had also been in attendance, had all drifted together, as children do. Being the same age, myself and the young king had gravitated closest to each other, immediately developing that kind of instantaneous friendship only possible for kids of that age.”

Castiel had begun pacing, back and forth, while only glancing at Dean periodically. But his stride was even and unhurried, as if he was totally calm, just relating an interesting tale.

“Somehow, I can’t really remember exactly how, the subject of Magick came up, and kids being kids, the Mortaleigh children had started showing off what they could do. Being the outsider, one would think I would have been left out. But they were actually the most interested in me, since my Grace was different from their Magick.”

Alarms were ringing in Dean’s mind. What was Castiel’s reaction going to be when he was done speaking?

At least Castiel wasn’t chaining him up again yet, although he didn’t look pleased either. What if he decided to take advantage of having his brother’s rival king practically at his mercy?

Dean’s eyes started automatically categorizing possible escape routes.

“Again, kids being kids, once I had read some surface thoughts from each of their minds, essentially the only thing I could do at that age, the other kids had quickly grown bored, preferring to play with their own flashier brand of Magick. And I wanted to try it too.

“In particular, I wanted to try King Dean’s fire Magick, the only one of them who could use fire at that point. After a few stern looks from the adults, however, King Dean had refused to teach me. So instead, I bribed the young king with a piece of Calistamar candy to come away with me from the party to the cliff edge, where we would be hidden by boulders placed there and could practise.

“It only worked because the adults were more interested in getting on John’s good side, as the regent, than that of the four-year-old king.”

Dean remembered, and he knew exactly where this story was leading.

“Cas,” Dean tried interrupting again.

Castiel shushed him.

“Even hidden away, King Dean was reluctant at first, not wanted to disobey his father, but I told him that our parents wanted us to be friends. For peace and all that. Not that I really understood what that meant at the time. It did, however, succeed in getting King Dean to agree. For a four-year-old, he was a pretty good teacher. Of course, I failed every time I tried, but he didn’t get frustrated like most other children would have.”

Dean remembered that he had wanted to act like a king. Even though Castiel hadn’t technically been one of his subjects, he had wanted to prove to his father that he could lead.

“Finally, the young king told me to let my emotions fuel the fire, since it came from inside—and he had pointed at his chest—not from the head. He told me to get angry. And I tried. Again and again, until I was practically crying from frustration. But King Dean had one last trick up his sleeve.”

Dean nearly blushed from embarrassment at what he knew was about to follow in Castiel’s tale.

“As a child, with a limited range of emotions, he knew anger, sadness, happiness, and one more. Love. The love he had felt from his parents. He had tried anger with me, didn’t want to make me sad, and didn’t know how to make me happy when I was so frustrated, so his young mind must have fixated on love.

“The result being that Dean, with his chubby little hands, grabbed my face and kissed me on the nose, telling me ‘That’s what mother used to do.’ Then he told me to try again. I can’t describe what my child-self felt then. I think I was just overwhelmed. But it worked and suddenly flames were shooting up from my tiny hands, burning high and bright.”

It had been beautiful, Dean recalled. Castiel had glowed.

“I guess it took Dean by surprise, though, because he suddenly stepped back, and that’s when one of his feet slipped over the edge, into the open air. He stumbled and I could only watch in petrified horror as he started tilting over the edge, about to plummet down to his death.”

Dean had been absolutely terrified. Ever since that day, he had always hated heights, avoiding them at all costs. Why he was standing back from the cliff edge even now.

“I suppose something must have clicked in my child brain then, since I suddenly reached out and grabbed Dean’s upper arm, stopping his fall. But because my hands were still alight with the fire I had summoned, I also burned through his sleeve and onto his arm.”

Dean winced at the remembered pain of that burn.   
“His scream of pain brought all of the adults running. King Dean was quickly ushered away by the palace staff and guards, presumably to be treated. My father attempted damage control, trying to explain it away as ‘boys will be boys.’ It took some additional obeisance on my father’s part, but in the end Dean’s father admitted that no harm was done that wouldn’t heal and that the incident would serve as a lesson for Dean, ultimately making him stronger. The next thing I knew, my father, brother and I were leaving Mortaleigh.”

Dean hadn’t heard that last part of the story before, but he could easily see his father saying exactly that.

It took Dean a moment to realize that Castiel had finished speaking, and by the time he did, Castiel was already briskly striding up to him. Without a moment’s pause, Castiel reached out and ripped open the buttons of Dean’s shirt.

“Hey!” Dean yelped. “Woah, what are you—”

Castiel tugged his sleeve down, revealing the black leather underneath.

Dean pleaded. “Cas, stop. I—”

He pushed aside the leather, and Dean knew exactly what Castiel saw as he stared at Dean’s arm: a raised scar in the shape of a child-sized handprint.

Dean didn’t try to hide it. It was too late.

He didn’t try to break away from Castiel’s rigid grip on his forearm. He would take whatever was coming to him.

He just watched Castiel, feeling a wave of sadness wash over him. At least it was done now. Out in the open, come what may.

Castiel stepped back, his face anguished. “It is you.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the King of Mortaleigh. Not Winchester, but Campbell. King Dean Campbell.”

“Yes.”

“You _lied_ to me. This entire time…”

“Yes… I had to. For my own protection. And to prevent war.”

Castiel’s eyes were wet and glistening when they met Dean’s. “But what about now? Why didn’t you tell me before? Why did I have to find out this way?”

Dean sucked in a shuddering breath. “I was afraid.”

Castiel inhaled sharply, hurt in his eyes. “You didn’t trust me.”

“No! That’s not why. I—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Castiel snapped.

Dean retreated backward at Castiel’s rage.

Castiel wasn’t done. “If you trusted me, like I trusted you when I _vouched_ for you… If you trusted me, you would have known that I would have believed you—that I would have understood. And I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have turned you away.”

“And I wanted to believe that so much. I wanted to tell you. It was killing me not to. But I was already risking so much for my own happiness. If I had told you the truth and it didn’t go well… I just wanted to keep what little time I had with you.” Dean hugged his chest, trying to keep the despair welling up inside him from bursting out. Everything was going wrong.

Castiel snorted. “Happiness? What future did you think we could have had? Whether I found out or not, you would have had to return to Mortaleigh. When I thought you were just a knight, I thought that maybe, after you sorted out some things, you could come back and stay for a while at least. But you’re the fucking king! You can’t just disappear for months at a time. And where would that have left me? Just some fling to pass the time when you happened to be in Calistamar and got bored? Is that all I am to you?”

“No!” Dean exclaimed. “Of course not. I was just… I hadn’t figured that part out yet. I had wanted to see how you would take the news first. If you would even still want me hanging around after that.”

Castiel scoffed. “And in the meantime, it didn’t matter if I got hurt? If I fell—If I started to really like you, and then you just told me this revelation and left if I didn’t take it well? Well, now you know. So, what’s your solution now?”

Dean bristled. “Well, it’s not like you asked me to stay indefinitely! You half-expected me to be gone by now, I could tell. Yet, you let us get close. You still opened up to me. You knew the possibility was high that this—whatever this is—couldn’t last past this week. So don’t you dare tell me you didn’t enter into this with open eyes!”

Castiel visibly stiffened. “Then I suppose we have both made a mistake in letting things go this far.”

“Cas,” Dean started.

“No!” Castiel snapped. “Once I released you, you could have told me the truth. You could have chosen to trust me. But you didn’t. And why? To spare your own feelings. Did you even consider how I would feel when I found out that the guy I just _fucked_ had been lying to my face the entire time about who he was?”

Dean winced at Castiel crassness and his harsh words. But he couldn’t argue against them. Because they were true.

“Yes, I wasn’t sure if this would last,” Castiel admitted. “But at least I honest. You knew who I was. What I was offering and what I wanted.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, Dean? What are you offering me? What do you want from me?”

“I… Cas, I—” But just then a new messenger, from Calistamar this time, came running around the side of the building at full speed.

Panting, he handed Castiel a letter bearing the Calistamar royal seal. Castiel opened and read it silently, while Dean waited, wiping his eyes, tension thrumming through his body.

Finally, Castiel lifted his eyes from the page and spoke. “It’s from Michael. He’s received a ransom demand for Samandriel, Gabriel and Metatron.” He blue eyes searched Dean’s face. “The ransom demand is from Mortaleigh.”

“What? That’s impossible.” _What in all of Liscalis was going on?_

“I know,” Castiel said.

Dean wrung his hands and swallowed, steeling himself. “I… I’ll go to Granamar and tell Michael myself that it’s a lie.”

Castiel shook his head. “Dean… You can’t.”

Dean frowned. “Why not?”

“Michael had already made the declaration. Calistamar and Mortaleigh… We’re at war.”

The moon was hidden behind clouds and the sky was dark. Just like Castiel’s thoughts.

The sun had set long ago, but Castiel was wide awake in his study at the front of the house, sitting in his armchair with his legs tucked under him and chin resting on his knees. He was gazing out the window, off down the road leading away from his estate and at the hoofprints still visible along it.

Earlier, after Castiel had revealed the contents of the letter, his and Dean’s argument had died in the wake of the horrifying news.

He had then had the unpleasant task of breaking the bleak news to his staff. There had been plenty of cursing and prayers, and more than one sour look aimed Dean’s way simply for being from Mortaleigh.

In a somber spirit, he and Dean had eaten a silent dinner in the formal dining room. Castiel hadn’t been able to tell what had been running through Dean’s mind during the meal, but his own mind had constantly jumped back and forth between Dean, the _King_ of Mortaleigh, and the impending war that was looming over their heads like a scythe waiting to drop.

He couldn’t even recall what had been served.

After they had finished eating without a meaningful word shared between them, Castiel had arranged for a servant to see Dean to one of the guest bedrooms, and they had both retired for the night.

They both had a lot to consider and distance was probably for the best, Castiel thought. Dean hadn’t protested.

For his own part, Castiel knew that Michael would be expecting him to return to the capital. His brother, _his_ king, would have a place for him in the war to come.

Dean would have to return to Mortaleigh as well. It was an unavoidable fact. Since he was Mortaleigh’s king.

As much as it caused his chest to tighten, Castiel had forced himself to keep repeating that fact over and over to himself.

Dean was the King of Mortaleigh.

King Dean Campbell.

Not the Dean Winchester he had thought he had grown to know and possibly lo—care for.

And what was even worse? The concerns Dean had cited as his reasoning for not telling Castiel the truth, his fear that Castiel would reject him, didn’t even matter anymore.

Because there was no choice. Castiel had no choice. Whether he would have wanted Dean to stay or not, it didn’t matter anymore.

All this had paraded through Castiel’s mind as he had tossed and turned, trying desperately to sleep even a few hours.

But he just couldn’t clear out the thoughts that kept pounding at him. Each fact felt like a blow from the staff his sparring partners had used when he had been learning how to swordfight, sure to leave bruises the next morning.

Dean was Mortaleigh’s king. _Thump._

Dean had lied to him. _Thump._

Castiel was an idiot for trusting him. _Thump._

Castiel was an idiot to letting things go so far between them. _Thump._

He was technically harbouring the king of an enemy kingdom during wartime. _Thump._

For which he could be considered a traitor. _Thump._

Because they were at war. _Thump._

Unable to sleep, Castiel had finally given up and started packing for his journey to Granamar, but he had stalled part way through. Instead, he had gone to his study to just sit and stare out into the quiet night.

The calm before the storm.

Thanks to that decision, he already knew what Dean had decided to do. Because five minutes ago, he had watched Dean ride off into the dark on Baby.

He had already known intellectually, of course—it really was the only logical choice—but watching it happen right before his eyes was a different kind of knowing entirely. A harsher kind.

Because deep in his heart, Castiel had still been wishing Dean would decide otherwise. Which was the epitome of stupidity on Castiel’s part.

After all, why in all of Liscalis would Dean stay? Castiel had thrown Dean’s lie back in his face. Dean had his duties, just as Castiel had his, and as _king_, they were even more critical than his own.

Even still, even though any sign of Dean was long gone except for those hoof prints in the snow, Castiel continued to stare into the dark of the night. He had never raised any alarm or sent any guards chasing after Dean, nor did he have any intention of saddling up himself.

Despite the pain stabbing deep into his chest, Castiel just couldn’t bring himself to be angry at Dean for leaving. Put in Dean’s position, he was certain he would have left too.

And yet, he still wished that Dean had been honest with him earlier. At least after Castiel had freed him and before they had become intimate. But what was done was done. He had to accept that and at least try to place it firmly in the past.

He determined that it would be best to think on their brief time together as an important life lesson. Painful in the present, but perhaps to be cherished in the future.

For the moment, however, he had to lock all of that away, good and bad memories, because it would only serve as a distraction in the days—months, _years_—to come. However long this new war lasted.

Clutching Dean’s leather jacket to his face, he breathed in the last remnants of Dean’s scent that still clung to it. Then he neatly folded the jacket and walked over to his desk.

He had to lock it away—every last piece—because the next time he and Dean saw each other, they would be on the battlefield of war.

It was as he was opening one of the drawers to hide the jacket away that Castiel spotted it: a folded piece of paper on his desk with his name scrawled across it.

Placing the jacket to the side, Castiel picked up the letter, and with shaking hands, unfolded it.

_Castiel,_

_I’m so sorry. With this news, I have to go. I wish I could properly explain things so you would understand why I did what I did. Why I lied in the first place. Why I continued to lie. But I don’t have my brother’s way with words, so I can only try my best and hope you don’t completely hate me after, if you don’t already._

_For now, I’ll just start at the beginning…_

_I hired the Wayward Sisters and came to Calistamar in secret to meet with Michael, who didn’t know I was coming. My intention was to open up talks about revising the Peace Treaty between Mortaleigh and Calistamar before the renewal next year, and I didn’t want to give Michael the opportunity to refuse hearing me out, as he’s done every other time I’ve broached the subject._

_My spy had an inside man to get me in to see Michael, who Bobby was supposed to pull aside from the party, but otherwise no one else, besides my advisor and major-general, knew—or was supposed to know—that I was there. I don’t know if someone found out about my plan and used it to frame me, or if it was just an unfortunate coincidence that I came on the same night as the disappearance of Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron._

_That is the full and honest truth as I know it._

_Whichever the case, despite everything that resulted from it, I don’t regret my failure of a plan, because it allowed me to get to know you. Ideally it would have been under different circumstances, but I would go through it all again for more time with you. My only regret is not telling you the truth about myself sooner. Perhaps then we could have figured out a better solution together. Perhaps it would have ended the same._

_I can only say that I was scared of your rejection, and also scared of you accepting me and then having to leave you. Just like this. Just like you accused me of. Because you were right. As much as I hate it sometimes, my duty as king trumps what I want. What I desire._

_I didn’t have a plan for what would happen after you found out. I just knew that I couldn’t let you go._

_I still don’t have a plan, if you are even still interested now. And with war on the horizon, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to return. But in case you haven’t noticed, my plans suck anyway._

_I hope that our cold departure after dinner today wasn’t the last time I will ever see you._

_Yet, I also hope that it is, because I don’t know how I will be able to face you if I see you on the front lines of war._

_Please, help Michael see sense and call off this stupid war. I will do everything in my power from Mortaleigh to stop the war and find your family, but if Calistamar moves against us, my hands will be tied—again._

_I already miss you._

_Ever yours,_

_Dean Campbell, King of Mortaleigh_

_P.S. This winter, during the Festival, I will be at that lake. I don’t know how yet, but war or no war, I will be there._

Castiel crumpled up the letter and was about to toss it in the fire when he collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He clutched the crumpled piece of paper with Dean’s words on it to his chest, sobbing so deeply that his throat and chest ached and he thought he might suffocate.

Mirabel found him like that when dawn broke.


	8. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

In Calistamar’s War Room, Castiel sat at the large table with Michael and a bunch of Calistamar’s top advisors in the areas of war and strategy.

Maps, letters, and books of strategy were spread haphazardly across its surface. The candles illuminating those papers were burning low, dripping wax onto the old wood.

The argument about the best way to attack Mortaleigh had been going on for hours, and Castiel just wanted to scream.

“We should keep their army occupied at the bridge while our army uses the river boats to ferry our troops across the Aqualis River and into Mortaleigh,” Bartholomew was saying.

Thaddeus argued, claiming, “No, such subterfuge is pointless. Our forces are ready, while Mortaleigh’s army is still gathering. We should use our advantage to simply take the bridge, along with East Aquare, and march our troops right into their kingdom. A swift and decisive strike.”

Castiel took no part in the arguments, offering no strategy or commentary. He was wary of what might come out of his mouth, should he risk opening it.

Unfortunately, with Metatron and Gabriel gone, Naomi away in Burnamar, Lucifer back in Hellspyre, and Anna already in West Aquare, Castiel was Michael’s only other familial ‘ally’ present. And so, Castiel’s silence, which normally would have passed unnoticed, was earning him sour glares from the king.

Castiel ignored his half-brother. Let Michael glare at him all he wanted. Castiel refused to participate in this farce any more than he was absolutely forced to.

The first thing he had done upon arriving back in Granamar had been to try to convince Michael to rescind his declaration of war.

Yet, Michael had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the ransom letter, bearing Mortaleigh’s royal seal, was proof of the entire kingdom’s guilt.

When Castiel had attempted to explain that the seal had to have been forged, Michael had asked what proof Castiel had that Mortaleigh _wasn’t_ behind the plot. Of which, of course, he had none.

Even if Dean himself had been there, Castiel doubted that Michael would have listened to reason. With Samandriel having been missing for nearly a fortnight by that point, the loss had finally begun taking its toll on Michael.

Michael had also expressed his particular displeasure with Castiel that he had allowed the prisoner to escape, which was the excuse Castiel had devised to explain why he was returning without Dean.

Add Michael’s annoyance that Castiel had antagonized Hellspyre—Calistamar’s main ally in the coming war—by refusing the “assistance” of their Grand Torturer on top of that, and Michael was not about to listen to anything Castiel had to say.

Except where it pertained to how to defeat Mortaleigh in battle.

That had been a week ago. Twenty days and counting since the celebration and disappearance.

Over the last seven days, multiple small border skirmishes had been waged and mostly won by Calistamar. And with those small battles, thirty years of peace had come to an end.

Mortaleigh, too, was preparing for war under the direction of their king who had abruptly returned from an impromptu “vacation.” Reportedly, the vacation hadn’t done him much good as his mood was apparently worse than it had been before he had left. Though most blamed this on the war, Castiel knew the truth.

With Michael refusing to listen to him and anyone else he might have listened to not available, Castiel knew that his only hope to stop the war was to discover and reveal who had truly sent that ransom letter to Michael.

The lack of tangible leads made Castiel believe that whoever was responsible for the disappearance of his family members, and presumably the ransom letter, had to be living in or have spies in both Calistamar and Mortaleigh in order for them to facilitate both the kidnapping and copying of Mortaleigh’s royal seal.

They also would have had to have prior knowledge of Dean’s plan to visit Calistamar in secret. According to Dean, only Advisor Bobby Singer and General Jody Mills had known of his intentions, but Dean didn’t appear to suspect either of the two being involved in this, based on his letter.

In any case, they were both in Mortaleigh and out of his reach, so he could only hope that Dean would do his due diligence over there nonetheless.

The problem with Castiel’s plan lied in the fact that Castiel had absolutely no idea where to start searching for the person or persons with such connections. There were simply too many.

His time was also limited, as Michael had named him General of Calistamar’s cavalry, which came with a large number of additional responsibilities. Not the least of which was the requirement of his presence in war meetings such as the one he was currently stuck in.

“Full size gathered or not, Mortaleigh has always beaten us in terms of sheer military strength. We need to be smart about how we proceed. A direct attack is unwise,” Bartholomew was saying.

Thaddeus countered him once again. “A direct attack is our wisest option! We have an advantage right now, and to waste it in a sneak attack that may or may not work, would be the height of foolishness!”

“Perhaps we should wait and let Mortaleigh make the first big move,” Balthazar interjected. “After all, Mortaleigh supposedly started this thing, right? So, letting them make that first strike would prove to the general populace that Mortaleigh’s the one that wants war, not us.”

Castiel found himself nodding at his friend, despite his determination not to participate. If they waited for Mortaleigh to make a move, Castiel suspected the war would never begin. Or at least it would be postponed until Michael lost his temper and made the first move anyway.

So long as Dean wasn’t pressured by Michael into reacting, Castiel felt sure that Mortaleigh’s army would never be the first to engage. This could very well be the temporary solution he had been looking for. So long as Michael agreed…

The king seemed to be considering his options. He scrutinized Bartholomew, Thaddeus, and Balthazar, then looked to Castiel, who purposefully and pointedly shifted his gaze to Balthazar.

Michael glanced at the empty chair next to him where Anna would have sat, had she been present.

On loan from Lucifer for the duration of the war, Hellspyre’s Advisor, who had been silent up to that point, spoke up. “You could always demand the Mortaleigh king’s immediate surrender,” he said. “At the knife point of an assassin, naturally. That would end this war rather quickly, I would say.”

“Thank you for your input, Crowley,” Michael finally said. “But I concur with Thaddeus’ plan. A clean stroke to set the tone of the war in our favour is just what we need. It will send the message that Calistamar is not to be taken lightly and that we will defend our own, not matter the cost.”

Thaddeus grinned while Castiel’s last hope to prevent all-out war died. Balthazar sent him an apologetic glance, but Castiel didn’t have enough spirit left to respond. His eyes fell to the candle flame dancing in front of him for the rest of the meeting.

Michael laid out the plan of attack. The only part Castiel truly heard was that the cavalry wouldn’t be required in the tight space of the bridge. Then the meeting broke up.

The next day, Castiel watched as the infantry departed with Thaddeus leading the vanguard, Michael at the head of the main force, and Bartholomew following with the rearguard. At least Balthazar remained to continue overseeing the protection of the city.

Once the bridge and East Aquare were taken, Castiel would be expected to ride out with the cavalry to join them.

His time was running out.

In the time that he did have, whenever he was not managing the restless men, women, and horses that made up the cavalry, Castiel personally re-questioned every single servant who had been present in Granamar during the celebration three weeks previous.

Every single one claimed that they had not seen either Samandriel, Gabriel, or Metatron leave the palace that night. The last time any of the three had been spotted had been as they had each gone upstairs separately and with no one else.

Although the palace had been thoroughly searched that same night, Castiel had it searched again with no luck.

All of the messengers that had been sent out before had since returned with no results as well. The only travelers they had seen along the roads had been guests leaving the celebration and the usual merchants moving their wares.

Castiel couldn’t help feeling more and more discouraged with everything he heard.

Hannah and Balthazar tried to cheer him up.

They took him out for drinks, but Castiel only recalled Dean, shirtless, sipping from Castiel’s favourite brandy. He wondered which brand of whiskey was Dean’s favourite.

They took him out hunting, but Castiel could only see Dean tromping over rabbit holes while Castiel tried not to laugh at his antics and scare their prey in the opposite direction.

They took him to an entertainment bar that catered to all preferences, but Castiel spent the entire time locked in his own head, wondering how Dean had learned of Constance’s _Women in White_ establishment and its secret passage. Hannah and Balthazar had ended up dancing while Castiel had nursed his drink and fended off a particularly persistent woman named Chastity. He might have accidently made her cry before they had finally left.

Castiel was in the War Room, examining the map, when the news broke.

After two days of intense fighting, Calistamar had won the battle for the bridge and had taken East Aquare. It had been a close fight and Calistamar had suffered great losses, but it was done.

“What of the king?” Castiel asked of the messenger who had come from the frontlines and delivered the news directly to him, being the highest-ranking person still in Granamar.

“King Michael is returning to Granamar now. He intends to rally the cavalry and obtain additional soldiers for the Garrison. Then yourself, the king, and the soldiers are to ride out.” Castiel had actually meant Dean, but he didn’t correct the messenger’s assumption.

The messenger continued. “Lord Bartholomew has been sent to Burnamar so that Lady Naomi may take over leading the force in Michael’s brief absence.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replied.

The messenger turned to go, but Castiel cleared his throat. “Mortaleigh… Um, how did they fare in the battle?”

“Mortaleigh’s army retreated with losses fewer than our own the moment they saw the town was lost to them. It was a smart move.”

Castiel nodded and said calmly, as if his next question was simple curiosity, “Was there anyone… of importance there during the fighting?

“Er, yes, my lord. The King of Mortaleigh himself was there.”

“And he retreated unharmed with the rest of his army?”

The messenger gave Castiel an odd look. “I believe so, my lord.”

“I see,” Castiel responded, trying to hide the relief that flowed through him like cool, healing water after a drought. Dean had survived the first massive battle of the war.

But how many more were to come?

The following day, Michael returned with his personal contingent of troops. As promised, he gave a rousing speech, recounting the victories of the previous battle, to the cavalry and then again for the city folk.

After his speech, recruitment numbers for the Garrison soared to record heights. After so long at peace, everyone, it seemed, wanted a piece of the glory Michael was promising.

Balthazar was given the boys and inexperienced men to train. The remainder, who had at least some field experience, were outfitted and prepared to depart with the cavalry.

In the midst of the chaos of the new recruits, came a second messenger.

This time, Castiel was sitting in his garden despite a bitter, late-winter wind that had blown in. The messenger, oddly enough, came to him from the direction of the outer gate, which should have been locked, rather than through the palace itself.

Everything became clear, however, when Castiel accepted the unmarked letter and opened it to see Dean’s handwriting. His task complete, the messenger hastily left.

With eager fingers, Castiel tore open the letter.

_Castiel,_

_I’m sorry for the shortness of this letter. I saw the opportunity to sneak it in with your returning soldiers, and had to write quickly. I told the messenger to watch for you in the garden, since I figured you would go there alone eventually._

_I wish I could give you good news, but I haven’t been able to find any evidence of your missing family members or any plot here in Mortaleigh. Bobby and Jody swear that they never told another soul about my plan, and I believe them._

_Bobby did mention that one of the servants may have overheard us speaking of it though. He is looking into that possibility now._

_My royal seal is still here, but Sam isn’t sure if he locked it away after he sent that letter to you (something about being distracted by his fiancé), so someone may have gotten access to it. Sam is looking into that._

_I can’t believe I’m writing this, but it honestly sucks being stuck away from the palace right now when I could be helping them search._

_Each time I ride into battle, I’m half-expecting to see you, and when I don’t, I can’t figure out if my relief or my disappointment is stronger._

_There’s so much more to say, but I’m out of time. I hope you’re having better luck than I’m having._

_I still miss you._

_Ever yours,_

_Dean Campbell, King of Mortaleigh_

“Oh, Dean…” Castiel sighed. “I miss you, too.” Then he summoned fire to his palm, just as Dean had taught him so long ago, and burned the letter.

Just as the letter crumbled to ash, Castiel heard footsteps crunching in the snow behind him.

“That is a precious little trick,” Crowley said as he rounded the trees. “A Mortaleigh trick, if I am not mistaken.”

Castiel brushed the ashes from his hands. “There are lots of Mortaleigh tricks that are known here in Calistamar. And vice versa.”

“Yes, I am quite sure there are.” Crowley circled around Castiel, his expression smug. “And this ‘Dean’ you mentioned so breathlessly? That wouldn’t happen to be Dean Campbell, now would it? The King of Mortaleigh, to be precise?”

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to follow Crowley as he moved. “No, of course not,” he lied. “Why would I be receiving a letter from our enemy?”

Crowley gave an exaggerated sigh. “A pity. And here I thought we could be allies. Such a shame.”

Then the Advisor started to leave.

“Allies?” Castiel cursed the desperation edging his voice.

Crowley paused. Turned. Straightened his suit.

Castiel clenched his hands into fists.

“Yes, allies,” Crowley finally said, scrutinizing his nails. “If that _was_ Dean Campbell who just sent you a little love note, and if you _do_ want to stop this war as much as I think you do, then _perhaps_ I might know a little something that could help.”

Castiel couldn’t believe his ears. A lead, at long last. And from the most unlikely of places.

“For a price, naturally,” Crowley added.

He should have figured. “What’s your price? Name it.”

“The role of Michael’s Advisor,” Crowley stated. “I want it.”

Castiel frowned. “You’re already Lucifer’s Advisor. In your own home kingdom. Why would you want to move to a different kingdom and do the exact same thing? Besides, Metatron is Michael’s Advisor. Michael’s isn’t going to just fire his own brother so you can have the position.”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. As for my reasons, let’s just say that Hellspyre won’t be the friendliest place for me after I tell you what I know. So I need my safety assured.”

Castiel scoffed. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Their dogs ate my tailor!”

Castiel blinked in astonishment. “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll try. Just tell me what you know,” Castiel insisted.

Crowley shook his head. “Oh, no. Like I said, I need assurances. What will your promise get me? Nothing, that’s what. So, run along and get Michael’s promise. Then we can talk.”

And with new energy, Castiel turned and ran. If Crowley’s knowledge could get Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron back and end the war, he wasn’t going to waste a second.

“Absolutely not,” Michael said firmly. “If Crowley knows something, then he should simply tell us, as his kingdom’s ally.” The king stood behind his desk, strewn with maps, letters, and reports.

Castiel restrained himself from shouting at his brother. “I got the impression that there are extenuating circumstances at work here that we are not aware of. Based on Crowley’s hesitance and that fact that he’s the one bringing us this information, I suspect that Hellspyre itself may be involved somehow.”

Michael scoffed. “That’s a ridiculous assumption. The ransom letter came from Mortaleigh. There is no disputing that fact. Additionally, Calistamar and Hellspyre have been allies since the start of the Blight War. There is no reason for them to turn against us now.”

“Yes, we’ve always been allies,” Castiel agreed, “but Calistamar’s relationship with Hellspyre was always a mutually beneficial partnership. Hellspyre never did anything for us out of compassion. And, since Lucifer’s marriage to Lilith over thirty years ago, what have we had to offer them?”

“Our great-niece, the heir to the Hellspyre throne, is here, learning from our best and brightest minds.”

“And you really think that’s enough? Lucifer and Azazel, not to mention Abaddon, are ambitious to the extreme. They have been looking to expand their territory for years.”

“Careful, Castiel. You are treading onto dangerous territory with what you’re implying,” Michael warned, moving around the desk to invade Castiel’s space. “Lucifer would not betray me. He wouldn’t dare.”

This was the point where Castiel would normally back down from challenging his brother, but this time was different. This time there was so much more to lose.

Castiel stood his ground. “I’m not claiming that Lucifer himself is involved, but we must consider the possibility. It could also be just some rogue faction in Hellspyre. The point is, we don’t know, and in order to find out the truth, we have to give Crowley what he wants.”

Michael folded his arms. “There are other ways to find out what Crowley knows, now that we know that knowledge exists. He can’t be the only one to know it.”

“But that will take time that we don’t have. While the war rages—”

Michael interrupted. “The war will continue on. I will not give up Calistamar’s current advantage while you chase rumours, and I will not make Crowley my advisor based solely on his word that he knows something.”

“Michael—”

“_Enough,_” he snapped. “You overstep. When you have some real proof, then I will listen. For now, you are dismissed. I have a war to win.”

Fuming, Castiel stormed out of the War Room.

What was he going to do now?

He had to get Crowley to tell him what he knew, but Crowley refused to reveal anything until he had Michael’s written promise for position and protection in Calistamar. Yet, Michael refused to concede to Crowley’s demands, even when it could potentially save his son.

Samandriel…

An idea sprung to life in Castiel’s mind, and he hurried off.

He located Anna in the yard outside the Garrison’s barracks, barking instructions at the soldiers while they trained.

Castiel pulled her aside and explained everything regarding Crowley, his information, and Michael’s refusal. A look of grim determination passed over Anna’s face, and when he was done, she quickly came up with a course of action.

Castiel waited outside the War Room while Anna went in to speak with Michael, holding a single piece of paper.

Anna returned a minute later, holding the signed and stamped paper.

“Did he read it?” Castiel asked.

Anna smirked. “Not one word. Told you he wouldn’t care to review an order for uniforms for the new recruits.” To Castiel, she handed the paper on which he had written earlier that Michael agreed to all of Crowley’s demands. “Now, go get my son back.”

Castiel nodded. “I will. Whatever it takes.”

Crowley read the letter three times before nodding his approval. By that time, Castiel was anxiously shifting back and forth where he stood.

They were in Crowley’s chambers where they were less likely to be overheard. The room was sizeable, but Castiel was starting to feel claustrophobic from the adrenaline pumping through his system.

Finally, Crowley began speaking. “Okay, here’s what I know. About two weeks before your anniversary celebration, King Azazel got word from his spy here in Calistamar—yes, we have spies here,” Crowley interjected at Castiel’s less-than-amused frown. “I’m certain Michael has spies of his own in Hellspyre, so don’t go looking all high and mighty.”

“Just go on,” Castiel grumbled.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. So, King Azazel heard from his spy—and as the King’s Advisor, I was informed, naturally—that a member of the royal household, King Dean himself, was planning on attending the Calistamar celebrations. She claimed that the visit was supposed to be secret.”

Castiel nodded. So, Dean and Bobby must have been overheard, just as Bobby had suspected.

“Now, Azazel saw this as the perfect opportunity to pursue his revenge for—how much do you know about the circumstances of Queen Lilith’s death?”

“Not much,” Castiel admitted. “What does she have to do with this? Didn’t she die over twenty years ago?”

“Twenty-two years, to be precise, and her death has everything to do with this. So, listen up. Way back then, your brother, Lucifer—”

“Half-brother.”

“—cheated on Lilith with a woman from Mortaleigh. Her name was Kelly Kline. And twenty-two years ago, she gave birth to a son. Lucifer’s son. Lilith found out and, well, let’s just say that she wasn’t happy about it. She struck out at Mortaleigh. Crossing the sea herself to destroy Lucifer’s little second family, but only after ensuring that Lucifer couldn’t follow her.”

Castiel frowned. “Lucifer never asked Michael for assistance. At least not that I ever heard.”

Crowley shrugged. “Lilith probably prevented him from getting a message out of Hellspyre. Being the queen, and Lucifer being just the king-consort, she had all the power. In any case, Lucifer was powerless and Lilith was after Kelly and her son. Being a citizen of Mortaleigh, however, Kelly had the actually brilliant idea to seek shelter with the Mortaleigh royal family.”

Castiel nodded. “So, she was protected.”

“Yes, King Dean Campbell, who had just fully assumed his kingship a few months earlier when he had turned eighteen, showed his soft heart and took the pair under his personal protection. That, however, didn’t stop Lilith. She was pissed and attacked anyway.”

Castiel winced. “That can’t have gone well.”  
Crowley snorted. “This is the story of how she bloody died, remember? So no, it didn’t go well. She sprung a surprise attack on the palace. A battle ensued, and in the end, Prince Sam Campbell killed her. Stabbed through the heart. However, Kelly Kline also died during the fighting. Her son, Jack, has lived in Mortaleigh under the tutelage of the king and prince ever since, and Lucifer has never pursued any kind of reparations for his wife’s death. After all, her gone gave him a kingdom of his own to rule until Azazel came of age.”

“That sounds exactly like Lucifer,” Castiel admitted somberly.

Crowley’s expression grew darker. “Your nephew, Azazel is a different story. He has always held a grudge against Mortaleigh, and Sam in particular, for its role in his mother’s death. He also holds no love for his father’s native kingdom. He would gladly see both at war once again, which is exactly the purpose of this current plot of his.”

Castiel sighed heavily. “So, it is Azazel who’s behind everything.”

Crowley nodded solemnly. “He wants revenge for his mother, for certain, but that is not the only reason. He’s also a power-hungry bugger, and he wants all of the wealth and power of Calistamar for Hellspyre and himself. So, he’s come up with a scheme to remove the remaining obstacles between himself and the throne of Calistamar, while souring the treaty discussions King Dean wished to champion as an added bonus.”

“And this plan involved kidnapping Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron, and blaming Mortaleigh for it.”

“Slightly more complicated than that, but essentially, yes. With Samandriel and Gabriel out of the way, and having incited a war, he plans to assassinate King Michael and Prince Sam during the height of battle, thus sealing his revenge and ensuring the crown of Calistamar is placed on his father’s head, which would make him next in line. After that, I’m sure Lucifer won’t last much longer either.”

Castiel had to tell Michael immediately, but first there were a couple more things he had to know. “How did he do it? Capture my family?”

Crowley held up a finger. “There is one other thing you should know: Metatron is working with Azazel.”

Castiel’s stomach clenched, like he had just been punched in the gut. “What?”

“Metatron has allied himself with Azazel. The king needed someone powerful on the inside of Calistamar, and Metatron’s _ambitions_ made him easily swayed.”

Warily, Castiel asked, “What did Azazel promise him?”

“Essentially, the throne of Calistamar, but through the guise of being Azazel’s advisor for Calistamar. Azazel has no plans to move from Hellspyre, so he needs someone in Calistamar who knows its inner workings to oversee things over here while he rules it remotely from Hellspyre.”

“Dammit, brother,” Castiel swore to the sky and whatever hole Metatron was hiding in while this plot played out.

Crowley continued. “Metatron helped kidnap Samandriel and Gabriel. I wasn’t privy to the exact details. Azazel’s siblings are also in on the plan.”

“Are they…” Castiel took a shaky breath. “Gabriel. Samandriel. Are they still alive?”

“I don’t know. But if they are, I know where they’ll be.”

Castiel stepped forward and grabbed Crowley by his shirt. “Tell me where. Now.”

Crowley cleared his throat and glanced pointedly down at where Castiel’s fisted hands were wrinkling his expensive-looking clothing.

Castiel glared threateningly at the other man, but let go nonetheless.

Crowley took the time to straighten his shirt before saying, “There’s an old cottage along the Aqualis, right near the northern end of Mortaleigh. It was where Lucifer used to meet with Kelly for their affair. I suppose Azazel saw using it as poetic.”

Castiel nodded, then asked, “Why are you telling me all this? It can’t just be for the advisor position. You’re already Lucifer’s advisor, so it’s not really a step up.”

Crowley scowled. “As much as I appreciate some good backstabbing and subterfuge, I’d rather it didn’t occur so close to home. Unless I’m the one doing the backstabbing, naturally. I would also rather not have to go through another war, thank you very much. It’s absolute torture on the merchants, and I simply can’t live without my personal brand of Scotch.”

Castiel shook his head. “But you still wouldn’t reveal all this without some compensation.”

Crowley chortled. “Of course not. I’m no fool. I know the value of that information.” He gave Cas a serious look. “Just make sure you make good use of it, got it?”

Castiel nodded. “I will,” he promised. He turned to leave, then turned back. “Why did you wait to long to approach me with this?”

“I had to make sure you were trustworthy.”

“And am I?”

Crowley smirked. “No one’s trustworthy. But I think you’ll do the job.”

With that, Crowley sauntered off, and Castiel hurried off to find Balthazar.

He was going to need some additional men.

As he was in the stables, loading up Jimmy for the journey, Michael himself stormed out of the palace, a frustrated-looking Balthazar on his heels.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael demanded, striding over and seizing Jimmy’s reins. “I need you to lead my cavalry into battle tomorrow.”

“I’m going to go rescue your son,” Castiel snapped.

For the first time in Castiel’s memory, he seemed to have truly surprised Michael. But the emotion quickly passed and Michael’s eyes narrowed.

“From Mortaleigh? You found where he is being kept? How did you get this information?”

This was exactly what Castiel had been afraid of, and why he had only requested a few spare guards from Balthazar to assist him, hoping that their departure would pass beneath Michael’s notice. He couldn’t reveal how he had gotten the information to Michael, or he would know what Castiel had done. What he had promised on Michael’s behalf.

“Just trust me, for once, brother,” Castiel begged. “I swear I will return with our missing family members.”

“Are you refusing to answer questions from your king?” Michael moved forward, crowding into Castiel’s space until they were practically nose to nose.

Castiel stood his ground. It was now or never. This was his one chance. “I suppose I am.”

Michael’s expression turned deadly—into the look he wore just before people started dying.

“Balthazar,” Michael said, his voice ice cold. Balthazar hesitantly stepped forward from where he had been hanging back, trying to remain inconspicuous. Michael never shifted his gaze from Castiel. “What were you just telling me earlier?”

“Earlier?”

“About the amount of guards?”

In his peripheral vision, Castiel saw Balthazar glance at him apologetically. “Well, you came up to me as I was getting a few men ready to depart, and you said—”

“I don’t need a play-by-play,” Michael snapped. “Just tell me what you said about how many of your Garrison guards it takes to properly defend this city in the event of a full-scale attack by Mortaleigh?”

Balthazar’s lips tightened. “I said, ‘As many as we can get,’ my king,” he ground out with obvious reluctance.

“Then why,” Michael said, stressing the ‘why’, “are you allowing four of your men to leave the city in the middle of a war?”

Michael continued his stare-down with Castiel, while Balthazar swallowed. “To rescue the princes and Lord Metatron,” Balthazar said. “Lord Castiel wished—”

“I ask you again, Castiel. Are you refusing to answer your king’s questions?”

Castiel’s shoulder stiffened. “I am.”

Michael smiled unkindly. “Then you may leave.” Castiel blinked. “_Alone._ And you will not return unless you have Samandriel, Gabriel, and Metatron with you, in perfect health. _Ever._ As of this moment, Castiel Seraphon, you are hereby stripped of your title, land, and are exiled from Granamar. You may live in the countryside of Calistamar, but no longer will you be welcome in the city and all nobility will treat you as a lowly commoner.”

Castiel stood frozen in place, feeling as if his entire world had just been ripped out from under him.

_Exiled?_

_He was exiled?_

The thought just couldn’t seem to click in place.

Then it did, and Castiel burst out laughing.

Michael stepped back as Castiel bent over, stomach hurting from the harsh laughter escaping from him. Castiel was practically hysterical with it.

“Cassie?” he heard Balthazar ask with concern.

He struggled to calm himself and finally got his shaking body under control once more, wiping tears from his eyes.

Michael was eyeing him warily, as if he thought Castiel’s mind had finally snapped.

And perhaps in a way it had, and Castiel had never felt freer.

“I _will_ return with Samandriel, Gabriel, and even Metatron. But even if I didn’t, good fucking riddance.”

Michael couldn’t seem to decide if he should be furious or call for the guards to lock Castiel up after all.

Castiel continued, “I haven’t enjoyed, or even liked being here, living under your shadow, for a long, long time. In fact, I’ve come to despise the time I have to spend here, catering to your every whim while simultaneously cleaning up your messes that you refuse to see as issues you’ve caused.”

He turned to Balthazar. “I’ll miss you, my friend. And Hannah as well. But I’m sure we will see each other again. As for the city itself, it stinks. Quite literally. I long for the country and can’t wait to be gone from here. Sparing a select few, the rest of the nobility isn’t much better either.”

Castiel tugged Jimmy’s reins from Michael’s slack grip and mounted his horse. “I want to help the people of Calistamar, and all of Liscalis, but I have a feeling that I just may have better luck doing that away from you and the palace. Somewhere my thoughts and opinions will be respected and perhaps carry more weight. That is where I could make a real difference. If he’ll take me.” That last sentence was said in a low voice, almost to himself, but Baltazar heard.

“‘He’? Who is ‘he’?” his friend asked.

Castiel just smiled. “Farewell, my friend.” He looked at Michael, staring at him, clearly stunned. “Goodbye, brother.”

Then he pulled the reins, turning Jimmy, gave him a nudge with his heels, and he was on his way. Hopefully to a new, better life.

Dean was out on Baby, surveying the battlefield. Calistamar’s Garrison still maintained its hold on East Aquare, but for the moment, Dean’s company of troops was at least managing to prevent them from taking the neighboring towns while the rest of the Mortaleigh Army mobilized.

Before him stretched a field that had once grown some of the best strawberries in Liscalis. The plants, which had been dormant for the winter, had been either trampled by feet and hooves, or uprooted entirely by the ferocity of the battle that had occurred just the day before.

Sam would be disappointed to hear the news.

His brother was in Ashbourne, planning their long-term military strategy and managing the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom.

Dean felt bad about leaving everything in Sam’s hands once again so soon after his return. But they were a warrior people, and as king, he was expected to march out to battle in person, so there was no help for it.

And in any case, Dean doubted that Sam’s fiancé, Jessica Moore, would have let Sam ride out in Dean’s place. Not with their wedding approaching that spring and Sam, himself, wanting to be part of all the wedding decisions for reasons Dean couldn’t fathom.

With Jess out in the field, working with Dean in her capacity as Bobby’s protégé, Sam had to be the one to make sure all their preparations kept running smoothly and answer to their wedding planner.

Not that Dean hadn’t already gotten an earful from Sam in the brief time he had been in home.

Admittedly, he probably could have handled his little trip to Calistamar differently in hindsight, but it takes two to make war.

While recounting the events of the last few weeks, Dean had glossed over the days of his captivity. Particularly leaving out certain aspects of his time at Castiel’s home and everything regarding Joshua and Alistair. Those events were in the past and there was nothing Sam could do about them, so there was no point in making him worry by telling him.

At least that’s what Dean told himself, even as every blow he delivered, received, and witnessed during the recent battles only reminded him of the deprivation and pain he had already lived through.

He bore through it, but Dean could feel himself wearing down more and more each day. He had gotten little sleep during his short stay in Ashbourne, and even less since leaving.

In fact, the last good sleep he could remember was in Castiel’s arms. He hadn’t tossed and turned then, plagued by nightmares as he was now.

With each day that passed, that time, the good parts anyway, had felt more and more like a dream. A dream that Dean desperately wanted to return to.

But he couldn’t. He had his duty as king, and Castiel was likely still pissed at him anyway for his lies.

Dean sighed, and Baby snorted beneath him in response, making Dean chuckle hollowly.

A moment later, Dean spotted a rider coming from the direction of his camp, moving fast. He nudged Baby forward, and started riding over to meet the rider.

It was one of his captains, Arthur Ketch.

“My king,” Ketch was shouting as he approached on his gelding. “My apologies for the interruption, but we have detained a man trespassing into our camp. He refuses to give his name, but, well, he claims to know you, your majesty.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Know me?”

Ketch seemed affronted. “Yes. He said, and I quote, ‘Just tell him that I have his jacket.’ Whatever that obscure reference is supposed to refer to. Though he did have a rather old-looking, leather—my king?”

But Dean was already galloping Baby away from the battlefield, back to camp, leaving Ketch to chase after him.

When Dean arrived at the camp, he immediately spotted a cluster of soldiers. He leapt off Baby, dropping her reins in the dirt, and barreled his way through the crowd.

Had he announced his presence, the soldiers would have moved, but Dean was impatient. He had to know for certain.

_Was it him?_

_Had he come?_

And when Dean reached the center of the crowd, there he was.

“Castiel,” Dean breathed. Even the men and women beside him couldn’t have heard him, yet in that instant Castiel turned his head and their eyes locked onto each other.

Those ocean-blue eyes bored into him, digging deep trenches and exposing him. He was sure that Castiel could see everything Dean was feeling in his face. Dean didn’t even know what he was feeling. It was just overwhelming.

But Castiel was right there. In front of him. When Dean had feared he would never see him again.

Castiel stepped forward. Dean stepped forward, then he heard one of his soldiers whispering, “Who is that?” and he stopped himself from rushing to Castiel and doing… doing something.

“Move aside!” Dean finally yelled out, bringing to the attention of his soldiers the fact that their king was present. Right away, they cleared from his path and Dean gestured for Castiel to follow him.

He wanted to lead Castiel to his personal tent, but that was probably unwise. So, he brought him to the tent where his generals and captains would meet instead, commanding everyone inside to get out before turning to face Castiel, who was indeed holding Dean’s leather jacket tightly in his hands.

_Castiel. Here. With him. Alone._

“Did you get my letters?” Dean asked immediately.

“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding. “But that’s not—”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Dean said quickly. “I tried everything I could—Sam and Bobby helped, too—but nobody here knows anything. There’s been no further news from them about who might have overhead me and Bobby, or who might have used my seal, but I can write to them now, if you want.”

“Dean—”

But Dean kept speaking. If he didn’t get all of this out now, in person, he didn’t know when he’d get another chance. “I’m also sorry for leaving the way I did. I wanted to say goodbye in person, but I hadn’t been sure if you’d want to see me after… after you found out the truth. Or if you even cared. So, I figured a letter would be best.”

“I cared,” Castiel admitted. “I still care. But, Dean, I—”

“You still care?” Dean interrupted once more. “I haven’t completely ruined everything?” Dean stepped cautiously toward Castiel. “Please, tell me finding out I’m the king—that I lied—hasn’t chased you away.”

“Dean…” Castiel’s formally serious expression softened, but then he shook his head and when he looked at Dean again, the seriousness was back. “I want to talk this out with you. Believe me, I do. But we don’t have time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know where they are. Samandriel, Gabriel and Metatron. I know what happened. But I need some soldiers to help me get them back.”

Dean suddenly felt light as a feather. The burden of at least partial responsibility for Castiel’s missing family members had weighed heavily on him, and even he hadn’t realized quite how heavily until he knew they could finally be rescued.

“Where and how many? I will bring my entire army, if need be.”

Castiel smiled and Dean’s heart fluttered with butterflies. “A handful would probably suffice, but if you’re willing to spare them, l think we should bring a dozen, just in case. Azazel likely won’t have many guards for discretion’s sake, but best to be safe.” Castiel frowned and the butterflies dove down into Dean’s stomach. “We’ll have to get close to Calistamar though. The place we need to go is right along the Aqualis River to the north of here.”

Dean grinned. “You know me. I’m not one to turn down a challenge.”

“There’s one other thing you should know,” Castiel added. Then Dean listened in silent shock as Castiel recounted everything he had been told by Crowley.

Castiel, Dean, and a dozen of his best soldiers rode north fast and hard. Castiel had to borrow a horse from one of Dean’s soldiers since Jimmy was worn out from Castiel’s race to Dean.

But in just a couple hours, they had to slow their pace so that they could keep an eye out for the cottage. Half their company hugged the river’s edge, while the other half kept pace on the road. That way, even when the two diverged periodically, they shouldn’t miss the cottage.

Just as Dean started smelling salt on the air, indicating that they were approaching the northern coastline and the end of the river, one of his soldiers called for a halt.

The soldier explained, “I can sense energy ahead. It’s not Magick, but I can tell that it’s trying to stop people from approaching. Like a subtle whisper saying, ‘Don’t go this way.’”

Castiel directed his borrowed mount to move closer to Dean and the soldier. “How can you tell that?”

Dean smirked. “This is Rowena MacLeod. She is the most advanced Magick user in all of Liscalis.”

“And abroad,” Rowena added, removing her helmet that had been hiding her features.

Castiel looked at the stunning red-headed woman with appraising eyes. Dean bristled slightly. “I would love to learn from you,” Castiel said.

“You and everybody else,” Rowena said, fixing her hair. Her eyes moved up and down Castiel approvingly. “But I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, sugar.”

Dean nudged Baby until he was riding up between the two. “Hey,” he interrupted rather sourly. “We have a job to do, remember?”

“Of course,” Castiel said seriously, and he dismounted. “We should come up with a plan of attack before getting any closer.”

“I agree completely,” Rowena said cheerily, and she dismounted as well.

Dean scowled.

As Rowena sashayed by him, she whispered, “I never said I could only have one student. If you’d like to join.”

Dean… didn’t know how to respond.

Then she was gone. By the time Dean scrambled off his horse, Rowena, Castiel, and the other soldiers were already deep in discussing the plan.

A scout reported back that there was one entrance to the cottage, as well as a cellar door outside that could potentially connect internally with the cottage above. Ketch, who had come along as one of the dozen soldiers, proposed a basic ‘divide and conquer’ plan, which everyone agreed to.

In addition, Rowena and three of the guards would remain outside in case anyone got past those going inside and tried to flee.

Dean was with the team that would be going in the front entrance. Castiel would be taking the cellar. He would have much rather have kept Castiel with him, but when Dean had suggested it, Castiel had given him a look that had Dean immediately agreeing to change his mind.

Then they all moved into position. Timing it as precisely as possible, the two teams simultaneously breached the cottage. Dean himself rammed the front door open with enough Magick-enhanced strength that it flew into the wall on the opposite side of the tiny cottage.

As the scout had reported, Gabriel and Samandriel, who Dean recognized from the few times he had visited Calistamar, were on the left side of the room.

Dean’s focus, however, was on the right side, where Metatron and three unfamiliar men in plain clothes sat playing a dice game at a small table.

The three men, obviously soldiers from Hellspyre, had sprung to their feet when Dean had destroyed the door. Metatron, looking nervous, had remained seated, though he looked ready to flee the second he had a chance.

The first of the three soldiers lunged at Dean, but Dean blocked the unarmed man’s strike and used the butt of his blade against the man’s temple to render him unconscious.

The other two men used the first’s distraction to pick up their own weapons. Two of Dean’s soldiers were already moving around their king, leaving the other two by the door.

Dean let his soldiers handle the Hellspyre soldiers, while he made his way over to the prisoners. At the same time, Castiel emerged, sword at the ready, from a trap door in the floor. Seeing the situation handled, he hurried over to Samandriel while Dean examined Gabriel.

Samandriel was sitting on the lone bed, a rope binding his hands and securing him to one of the bed posts.

Gabriel was similarly bound, but he was lying on floor, unconscious, and in a much worse condition than the crown prince. Dean guessed that they had been treating Samandriel well enough due to his position and value as a hostage, but Gabriel had not been so lucky.

It had been years ago that Dean had last seen Gabriel, but even to his eyes, Elyon’s fourth-born son looked emaciated. More so than he should have been even if he hadn’t been eating properly the entire time he had been missing.

His once golden-brown hair, normally stylishly tousled, was a greasy, matted mess. His face was streaked with dirt, and what might have once been a white suit was now indistinguishably stained with grime and sweat.

But they were both alive.

Dean took stock of the situation, observing that Metatron was cornered by the four soldiers who had entered with Castiel. The Advisor was holding up his hands in surrender and was pleading with Dean’s soldiers to have pity on him.

Dean had no worry that his soldiers would listen to anything Metatron said or promised them.

The rest of his soldiers were securing the Hellspyre soldiers, preparing to march them out of the cottage. Everything was in order.

Having freed Samandriel from his restraints, Castiel approached Dean and Gabriel, and together they unbound him as well. Gabriel didn’t wake up, which was concerning.

“Do you think we should try waking him?” Dean asked.

Castiel frowned. “I don’t know. It’s probably best to let him rest, but he could have a concussion if they knocked him out by force. I don’t see any signs of that though…” Castiel brushed his hands along his brother’s temple.

“There was a carriage and horses outside. Probably what they used to bring them here from Granamar. We can use the carriage to bring Samandriel and Gabriel back to my camp. We can tend to them better there, make sure they can handle the rest of the journey. Then you can take them back to Calistamar.”

Castiel gave Dean a grateful look.

Dean added, “I’d offer to send my soldiers with you to bring the criminals to Calistamar as well, but I don’t think my soldiers would make it past Michael’s troops in East Aquare, and I don’t trust the Hellspyre soldiers travelling with you alone. Even bound in every way imaginable. So, it’s probably best if I hold onto them for now.”

Castiel nodded. “That’s okay. You hold onto the soldiers. I will take Metatron with me, though. As proof. I think I can handle him at least.”

Dean observed Metatron slouched and looking glum, surrounded but four stern-faced soldiers, and he chuckled. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

Castiel laughed as well, which cheered Dean, but just as Castiel looked to be about to say something, there was shouting outside the cottage.

Dean bolted to his feet and rushed outside, Castiel right behind him.

A man and woman that Dean didn’t recognize were exchanging rapid blows with the soldiers he had left outside. Rowena was staying back, but she was tossing bursts of physical Magick in an attempt to throw the two attackers off balance.

Even still, the man and woman were gaining ground. The man in particular was moving so fast that Dean’s eyes could barely keep track of him.

Dean had never seen anything like it. Even at full strength and enhanced by Magick, Dean himself couldn’t move that fast on his best day.

And every blow from the man’s sword had the steel ringing and his soldiers grunting from the force of it.

As Dean watched, one blow from the man knocked one of his soldiers back ten feet. The soldier didn’t get up again.

Dean cursed. Beside him, he heard Castiel’s stunned whisper: “Asmodeus and Dagon.”

Without turning his gaze from the fight, Dean asked, “How is he so strong?”

“I—I don’t know. He wasn’t like this before. He was always a good fighter, sure. But nothing like this. This—I don’t know what this is.”

That had worry seeping through Dean. Nonetheless, he drew his sword and stepped forward to engage.

Castiel’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. Dean looked back.

“Be careful,” Castiel said. “There’s something going on here that we don’t know, and I don’t like it.”

Dean nodded solemnly, and Castiel dropped his hand, drawing his own sword.

He summoned his Magick to enhance his strength, speed, and agility. He heighted his senses of sight and hearing, and he pushed some Magick into his sword to fortify the steel.

Then he threw himself into the fight alongside Castiel.


	9. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

As Dean and Castiel raced toward the fight, even more Hellspyre soldiers scuttled out of the surrounding forest, stopping them from getting close enough to engage the Asmodeus and Dagon. The siblings had arrived first, but they were not alone.

With a quick glance between them that said, “I’ve got your back. Let’s kick some ass,” at least to Castiel’s eyes, Dean and Castiel advanced.

The sounds of battle rang sharply in Castiel’s ears, but the only thing that pulled his focus away from his goal of stopping his niece and nephew was Dean fighting at his side.

Every time they were engaged by another foe, Castiel’s heart beat faster, but not from his own fight.

If Dean was struck down or wounded because of Castiel’s extended family’s feud thanks to their own internal scrabbling for power, Castiel would be devastated.

Yet, he really shouldn’t have been worried, because Dean was obviously an extremely skilled fighter. A fact that Castiel had known from stories and rumours, but had not yet witnessed first hand.

Dean’s sword spun and flashed gracefully, and its blade impacted powerfully as he parried blows and struck at his opponents.

Even with his masterful swordsmanship, Dean also wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. Knockout punches were thrown; fierce kicks were aimed at enemies who got underfoot. Castiel was fairly certain that he even saw a flash of teeth once when one of Hellspyre’s soldiers managed to get a hold around Dean’s neck at one point.

Occasionally, Dean would hurl Magick—a blast of fire; a bolt of lightning; a pressurized wave of air—but it was not often, and otherwise he seemed to be conserving his Magickal strength.

Castiel stuck with using his sword rather than his fists, but he was not as conservative with his Grace. He had his own version of ‘fighting dirty,’ which involved getting close enough to his opponent to touch them. Once he accomplished that, a sharp shock of Grace right through their skulls, delving into their minds, rendered them immediately unconscious.

As he began leaving a stream of comatose bodies behind him, however, the Hellspyre soldiers began catching onto his methods and purposefully avoided getting too close to Castiel, which made things more difficult.

Nevertheless, he and Dean progressed steadily toward where Asmodeus and Dagon were battling Ketch and a handful of Dean’s soldiers, with Rowena providing Magickal support.

The group was losing ground to the siblings, particularly to Asmodeus, who was repeatedly hurling smoky black shots of energy that Castiel could sense was neither pure Grace nor pure Magick. And yet, his nephew was showing no signs of exhaustion from the massive expenditure of energy.

How had Asmodeus gotten so powerful so quickly? During the celebration, Castiel hadn’t sensed this swirling vortex of energy he now gave off in excess.

When a sword nearly sliced his arm if not for a parry and a concerned look from Dean, Castiel realized that he would have to dwell on the matter later.

He refocused on fighting and soon enough, he and Dean arrived at the knot of soldiers around Asmodeus and Dagon.

Dean signalled to Rowena. “Wake up Gabriel. Get him and Samandriel out of here. You’ll have to make a run for East Aquare. We’ll follow if we can.”

“_When_ we can,” Castiel corrected.

Dean gave him a grin. “That’s what I said.”

Castiel snorted and reached out to deliver a blow of Grace to a Hellspyre soldier who had been raising his sword to Dean.

Rowena rolled her eyes at them, but hurried off to the cottage where they had left the princes.

In a brief respite from opponents, Castiel touched Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned to him, and Castiel said, “Tell Ketch that he and his men should take Dagon. You and I will take on Asmodeus. I don’t trust whatever power he’s using and we’ll probably have the best chance at stopping him.”

Dean nodded and they re-entered the fray. Dean headed for Ketch.

Castiel caught Asmodeus’ first blow with his sword. The clang it made had his ears ringing and the vibrations from the impact cascaded down his sword arm.

A few more of those, and his entire arm would be numb. Asmodeus’ strength was immense.

“Uncle Cassie,” Asmodeus drawled. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Castiel struck at Asmodeus, but his nephew held up his hand and sent a wave of energy at Castiel, making him stumble back.

“What are you doing fighting alongside these Mortaleigh troops?”

A quick check, and Castiel could see Dean speaking with Ketch. “I’m here for my brother and the one nephew I actually like,” Castiel said. “And to stop you and Dagon.”

Asmodeus laughed heartily, head thrown back. Castiel used the opportunity to get under his guard, but before he could touch Asmodeus use his Grace, Asmodeus was generating enough black lightning to make it crackle across his body and shock Castiel.

Castiel’s muscles convulsed and he fell to his knees, his sword dropping from his hand as it spasmed.

Asmodeus continued to chuckle. “You can’t stop me. Not now. Perhaps you could before, skilled as you are with Grace, but not anymore.”

Castiel glared up at him. “What did you do?”

Asmodeus smirked and smugly said, “I got discovered a new power source.”

Castiel blinked in astonishment. “What power source?”

His nephew raised his sword, the edge stained red with blood, preparing to strike Castiel where he kneeled in front of him.

“Stealing the Grace of others,” Asmodeus said, still smirking broadly. “Gabriel’s, in this particular case.”

That’s why Gabriel had deteriorated so fast, Castiel realized. Asmodeus had been taking his Grace, likely draining him again and again each time it had begun to replenish.

Horrified, Castiel grimaced. “You’re a monster, but at least you won’t have a chance to do it again.”

Asmodeus tilted his head, the picture of confident arrogance. “Oh? Are you going to stop me?”

Castiel smirked. “No,” he admitted. “But the King of Mortaleigh will.”

From behind Asmodeus, Dean struck, sword sweeping out, aiming for Asmodeus’s neck.

For a moment, Castiel was sure the blade would strike true. Then Asmodeus turned halfway and caught it in his bare hand, dark power glowing under his skin. Dean cursed.

Recovered from the lightning strike, Castiel snatched up his own sword and thrust it upward toward Asmodeus’ exposed side.

At the last second, Asmodeus dropped his sword and raised his now free hand to blast Castiel with a shockwave of energy that sent him rolling and sliding over the rough terrain until he slammed against a large boulder. Castiel leaned against the rock as he tried to pull air back into his lungs.

Fifteen feet away now, Dean ripped his sword from Asmodeus’ grip and swung it again. Asmodeus ducked away from the blade in a movement so fast that Castiel couldn’t track it.

How were they going to win against his supercharged nephew?

He glanced down the field to see that Ketch and the remaining Mortaleigh soldiers had defeated the Hellspyre contingent and subdued Dagon. She was being bound as she spat insults at Ketch. At least Dagon hadn’t followed her brother’s Grace-stealing lead to get over powered herself.

Asmodeus retaliated against Dean’s attack by knocking Dean’s sword out of his hand and then tossing his own away.

“Mortaleigh’s king, hm?” Asmodeus taunted Dean. “Let’s see how your physical Magick stands up to my power.” The black glow from Asmodeus’ hand spread over his entire body.

The next second, Asmodeus was landing a blow on Dean’s cheek. Castiel heard the crack of it connecting from where he lay.

Dean’s head snapped to the side from the force of it and he dropped.

“No!” Castiel shouted. “Dean!” He struggled to push himself to his feet. His body ached all over, but he stood. His sword, however, had flown off somewhere in the grass from the lightning blast.

“Dean!” he shouted again, helplessly.

Asmodeus glanced over his shoulder at Castiel and smiled cruelly. Then he turned back and aimed a savage kick at Dean’s stomach. It landed with a sickening thud.

Dean grunted, curling in on himself. At least he was still conscious, Castiel thought. Though unconsciousness may have been kinder as Asmodeus kicked him again.

Castiel’s rage flared white hot. He scrapped together the last of his Grace and summoned it all as a blazing inferno in his hands.

Then he threw the flames at Asmodeus.

The fire enveloped Asmodeus’s form, but he didn’t scream or flinch or give any sign of being burned. His clothes began turning to ash, yet Asmodeus’ skin remained unharmed by the blaze, still sparking with black energy.

Asmodeus turned his full attention to Castiel, annoyance in his eyes. “I liked that suit,” he said, irked.

“I’ll burn you to cinders if you touch Dean again,” Castiel growled.

Asmodeus simply shrugged off the last of Castiel’s flames, left in just soot-blackened and charred slacks that had formally been pristine white. Then he raised both his hands and summoned black flames of his own.

Before he could launch the black fire, however, Dean swept his legs out from under him. Asmodeus let out a snarl as he fell to his back and the flames died.

Castiel lurched over to Dean and helped him stand as Asmodeus surged back to his feet, looking furious.

Hunched over as he supported Dean’s semi-conscious weight, Asmodeus towered over them, sparking with that black energy and a murderous expression on his face.

Castiel heard movement behind him, and he glanced around to see that Ketch and the other Mortaleigh soldiers had subdued the rest of the Hellspyre soldiers. Those not on guard duty were now approaching Dean, Castiel and Asmodeus with their swords raised.

“They can’t save you,” Asmodeus sneered. “You seem to have a soft spot for this king, uncle.” He twirled some lines of black energy around his fingers. “Perhaps I should kill him and use some of Calistamar’s methods to make you live in a constant nightmare, watching me kill him over and over again.”

Castiel reached for any Grace he had left. Just a drop and a touch, that’s all he needed.

Asmodeus continued talking. “I don’t need either of you, after all. All I have to do is make sure the Mortaleigh prince thinks that you killed his brother, and war will be unavoidable.”

“Sam will never believe that,” Dean rasped.

Castiel glanced down at Dean, whose body was tense with pain against him but his face was calm and steady. Dean met his eyes, saying to him, “I told Sam everything. Well, mostly everything. He knows what you mean to me.”

Castiel’s heart thudded in his chest.

In front of them, Asmodeus sighed. “A shame, but there are other ways to twist your death to suit my purposes.”

“You won’t get that chance,” a voice said from behind Asmodeus, and before he could make the slightest move, the blade of a sword sprouted from his chest, painted red with his blood.

Asmodeus gasped, a dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

He staggered around to face Gabriel, who had suddenly appeared from thin air behind him. Castiel caught a glimpse of Rowena lowering her hands a distance away.

Even pale and emaciated, Gabriel’s face was the most enraged that Castiel had ever seen it. He had not even imagined his brother was capable of getting that angry.

“That’s for what you did to me, you bastard,” Gabriel snarled.

Castiel couldn’t see Asmodeus’ face, but Gabriel’s look of merciless satisfaction, as Asmodeus tilted and fell, told him all he needed to know.

Asmodeus’ body hit the ground with a soft thud, and for a moment there was silence.

Then Gabriel collapsed to his knees and Dean groaned beside him.

Castiel slowly lowered Dean to the ground so he could sit. Placing a careful hand on Dean’s chin, Castiel tilted his face to get a better look at his cheek.

He prodded the red mark gently, yet Dean still yelped. “Ow, Cas! That hurts.”

“I told you to stop getting hurt,” Castiel chided, half-jokingly, half-serious.

Dean reached up and brushed a knuckle against Castiel’s cheek, making him flinch when it unexpectedly stung. He must have scrapped it when he was tumbling on the ground. He was sure there were more scratches and bruises under his clothes that he would certainly feel later once the adrenaline from the fight wore off.

Dean smirked, then winced at the movement. “At least we match.”

Castiel snorted. “Not likely. I have a scratch. You, your majesty, are going to have a black eye and your cheekbone may have a fracture.”

Dean shrugged. “The price of saving the world.”

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” Gabriel muttered. “But does anyone have some food? Literally anything. Though some chocolate would be nice.”

It took them some time to sort through the messy aftermath of the fight and to make all the logistical decisions, but eventually Dean, Gabriel, a wounded Mortaleigh soldier, and the bound Dagon and Metatron were bundled up in the carriage. As a former prince and as evidence, Asmodeus’ body was wrapped and tied to the carriage for return to Hellspyre.

Dean left four of his soldiers to identify and burn the bodies of the Mortaleigh and Hellspyre soldiers slain in battle. The ashes would be dispersed amongst the soldiers’ families.

The rest, including Castiel, rode on horses alongside the carriage.

Dean wished that he could be out there on Baby, rather than stuck inside the stuffy carriage, but Castiel had put his foot down and forbidden Dean from aggravating his injuries by riding on horseback.

Dean’s soldiers had gotten a good laugh from seeing their king being scolded for his recklessness when it came to his own health and safety. And Dean had to admit, Castiel did have a point.

Yet, if he had to listen to another second of Metatron’s wheedling, Dean was seriously considering jumping out of the moving carriage and risking Castiel’s wrath.

After what seemed like days, but really was only a few hours at their slower pace, Dean heard one of his soldiers call a halt.

“Thank all that is merciful,” Dean declared, lurching out of the carriage. His muscles were stiff and he stretched cautiously so as not to aggravate his injuries.

As he lifted his arms above his head, however, he noticed that they were not yet in his camp.

They had stopped at the top of a hill whose crest overlooked the camp, small town, and fields beyond. The field where the last battle had been waged, however, was no longer empty. It was now filled with two armies marching into battle.

Michael had advanced the Garrison while Dean had been off saving the man’s son.

Dean could see the figure of Michael seated on a white horse at the head of his army. On the Mortaleigh side, Victor Henriksen was leading Dean’s soldiers out to meet the Calistamar force.

To his surprise, Jessica was also out there, fully decked out in armor and mounted on a ferocious-looking white stallion. She wasn’t at the forefront, but was calling out orders from the midst of his soldiers.

There was, perhaps, a hundred yards between the two armies and the distance was closing fast.

Dean whipped around and pointed a finger at Samandriel, who was just poking his head out of the carriage.

“You,” he shouted. “’Come with me.”

Samandriel’s eyes widened, but he climbed out of the carriage.

“Wait here!” Dean called up to the female soldier driving the carriage. Then he glanced around, trying to spot Castiel, who had been leading Baby from his borrowed horse.

He spotted him near the front of the procession. When Dean came up beside him, after dodging around his soldiers on their horses with Samandriel on his heels, he could see that Castiel was staring down at the armies on their imminent collision course with an expression of distress.

“We’re too late,” Castiel murmured despairingly.

Dean took hold of the pommel of Castiel’s saddle, making Castiel look down at him with confusion.

“No, we’re not,” Dean said with determination. He gestured for Samandriel. “Get up there,” he ordered.

Samandriel hesitated, glancing at Castiel.

Castiel, seeming to understand what Dean intended, nodded and moved forward on the saddle so Samandriel could climb on behind him.

Once they were settled, Dean untied Baby’s reins from Castiel’s saddle, gripped her saddle and swung himself up onto her, ignoring his aches and pains.

Then he clicked at Baby, nudged her with his heels, and they shot off down the hill at a gallop.

It was only luck that the hill wasn’t steep, allowing Dean to bend over Baby’s neck to keep his balance as she surged toward the shrinking space between the armies.

The sound of hoofbeats behind him had him glancing back to see Castiel and Samandriel a short way behind, following at a trot on their borrowed mount.

There was perhaps twenty yards remaining and the archers were readying to loose their first volley of arrows when Dean and Castiel rode between the lines.

Soldiers on both sides were already staring and pointing, which caught Henriksen’s attention first. Seeing Dean, he called for a halt immediately.

The Calistamar force was still moving. Michael clearly glanced their way, but didn’t call a halt. And when Michael gave the signal for his archers to fire, the projectiles rained down on the Mortaleigh army.

Henriksen had no choice. He returned fire.

Countless soldiers on both sides fell.

Castiel, a horrified look on his face, yelled over to Dean, “He must not see Samandriel behind me. We have to get him to Michael.”

Dean realized that Castiel was right. Samandriel’s smaller frame was nearly completely hidden by Castiel’s body, and at their distance, Michael probably couldn’t even tell there was anyone behind Castiel at all.

Ten yards.

The mouth of Castiel’s mare was foaming and her sides were heaving from moving so quickly with the weight of two men on her back.

Castiel was bent over her neck, stroking it and murmuring words that Dean couldn’t hear. Even still, she was slowing and they were only a quarter of the way along the length of the two armies. Michael was at the centre.

Dean felt panic creeping up on him. They weren’t going to make it.

“I’m going ahead!” Dean called to Castiel. “I’ll see if I can talk Michael down.”

“Dean, no!” Castiel shouted back. “He won’t listen. He’ll just use the opportunity to attack you.”

“If I don’t try, then it’ll be too late,” Dean responded, then before Castiel could protest more, he spurred Baby on even faster, leaving Castiel and Samandriel behind.

Five yards. Another volley of arrows.

Dean ducked over Baby as one whizzed by his head.

Four yards.

Dean’s soldiers were nervously raising their swords and spears again, bracing for the incoming attack. Henriksen looked grim. He’d lost sight of Jess.

Three.

Dean angled Baby directly into Michael’s path. Michael’s horse reared up, nearly throwing him.

“Michael! Stop!” Dean shouted desperately. “We have your son!”

Michael’s face contorted with anger. “I know,” he snapped, spurring his horse onward and swinging his sword at Dean.

Two.

Dean blocked Michael’s strike with his own sword. “No, listen,” Dean gasped out, trying again. “Castiel has Samandriel. Right over there. He’s safe.”

Michael finally glanced over at Castiel. Behind him, Dean could see an arm waving and a head poking out from behind Castiel’s shoulder.

“Samandriel,” Michael rasped.

One.

“Halt!” Michael called. His command could be heard echoing down the line.

And at the last second, the Calistamar Garrison stumbled to a stop just before a visibly relieved Mortaleigh Army.

Michael and Dean rode over to meet Castiel and Samandriel. Castiel had slowed his horse to a walk when the halt had been called.

When they met part way down the line, Samandriel practically leapt off of the exhausted mare and sprinted over to Michael, who had also dismounted, though more sedately.

Even still, Michael’s usual nonchalance was being tested. His fellow king’s hands were shaking as he sheathed his sword, and he opened his arms immediately to accept Samandriel, as his son rushed into them.

Dean would have even sworn that he saw tears glistening in Michael’s eyes before he shut them while holding Samandriel. But he could have been mistaken about that part.

Dean slid off of Baby onto wobbly feet. Castiel dismounted as well, and Dean had to restrain himself from rushing into Castiel’s arms himself.

Nobody else besides Sam, Bobby, and anyone Castiel might have told knew about the brief relationship he and Castiel had shared. And it was better for everyone if it stayed that way.

So, Dean and Castiel simply smiled at each other in relief and waited for the father and son to have their reunion.

When Michael pulled back, his expression grew serious once more. “Where was he?” he demanded.

Castiel responded, “He and Gabriel were being held hostage in a cottage in Mortaleigh—”

“You Campbells have messed with my family long enough!” Michael growled at Dean. “Draw your sword—”

“No, brother. Listen to me,” Castiel pleaded. Michael drew his sword and advanced on Dean, who placed a hand on his blade, but didn’t draw it. Castiel spoke quickly. “He was being held by Metatron, Asmodeus and Dagon.”

Michael paused. “Why would they do such a thing? What proof do you have that they are responsible?”

“A number of D—King Dean’s soldiers saw it. Also, they’re right here.” Castiel gestured to the carriage and surrounding mounted soldiers visible up on the ridge. “You can ask them and Samandriel yourself.”

“It’s true,” Samandriel piped up. “Uncle Metatron was working with Asmodeus and Dagon. I’m okay, but they hurt Uncle Gabriel really badly while they were holding us.”

Michael was silent, obviously considering his son’s words.

Finally, he said, “Bring them down. My army will retreat, for now. We will set up a tent to parlay here in this no-man’s-land.”

Dean nodded his assent.

The tent was erected in short order. Michael’s troops retreated, as promised, and Dean’s soldiers withdrew back into the town.

Dean offered to have Gabriel treated in the town with its medical supplies, but Michael refused and had him brought to his army’s camp where he could be cared for by Calistamar medics.

Samandriel remained glued to Michael’s side, and Metatron and Dagon were escorted into the parlay tent.

Dagon refused to speak, but Metatron spoke enough for the both of them. With Samandriel and Gabriel alive as witnesses to his crimes, Metatron knew he had no cards left to play except to beg for mercy. Which he did. Profusely.

Dean watched Metatron’s pathetic display with disgust as he wheedled and begged throughout the entire time Michael forced him to tell his story.

The Advisor confessed everything, corroborating Crowley’s words, and including additional details that Crowley hadn’t been privy to.

Metatron had been the one responsible for smuggling Gabriel and Samandriel out of the palace. During the celebration, while Asmodeus and Dagon made themselves visible to shake any suspicion, Metatron had approached Gabriel and Samandriel separately, asking them to help him with a surprise for the celebration.

He had taken them to his own room where two guards from Hellspyre had knocked them out and drugged them with sleeping draughts.

When the castle had been searched, Metatron had used his Magick to make the Garrison guard who came searching think Metatron’s room had been empty.

Once the majority of guests had begun to depart, Gabriel and Samandriel had been awoken just enough to be able to walk but still be docile and pliant. They had been disguised as guests, snuck out of the castle with the rest of the guests, and herded into the Hellspyre royal carriage where Asmodeus and Dagon were waiting.

Metatron also revealed exactly what had been done to Gabriel: Asmodeus, in order to increase his own stolen abilities, had experimented with removing Gabriel’s Grace and taking it into himself.

Dean shuddered at the remembrance of Asmodeus’ insane strength, and he adamantly hoped that no one else ever got the same inclination to try such an experiment.

Dean’s empathy went out to Castiel’s poor brother, and when he glanced over, Castiel looked horrified at what they had just learned.

Underneath the table they were sitting at, Dean reach out and put his hand over Castiel’s where it was resting on Castiel’s leg. Castiel’s eyes met his, and Castiel turned his hand, clasping Dean’s.

Castiel took comfort from Dean’s touch.

Gabriel… His free-spirited brother… Castiel couldn’t even imagine the horror what he had gone through. Having his Grace drained day after day after day…

After Dagon and Metatron, the latter still begging, were taken away by Calistamar soldiers, Dean pointedly caught Michael’s eye.

Michael sighed. “Azazel, my nephew… behind all of this…”

“Mortaleigh had absolutely nothing to do with it, as you can see. You can apologize now.”

Castiel choked back a snort at Dean’s sass.

The grimace that crossed Michael’s face said that an apology wasn’t likely forthcoming.

“I will withdraw my troops. The war is over,” Michael said instead.

Dean crossed his arms. “And what about all of the damage you have caused to my land and my people? Lives have been lost. They will demand justice and I can do no less on their behalf.”

Michael looked like he was sucking on a lemon. Castiel couldn’t help the smirk that grew on his lips.

“Reparations for the damage and deaths will be made,” Michael grumbled.

“Excellent.” Dean clapped his hands together. “Sam will insist that I demand all that in writing, of course, but otherwise, I think we’re square. How about we meet again in one month’s time to make it official?”

Michael scowled but nodded, and made to stand. Castiel, however, said, “There’s one more thing.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at Castiel. “Very well, your banishment is lifted. Your title and lands reinstated.”

Dean’s eyes, wide with shock, swung to Castiel. “Banishment?”

Castiel ignored Dean for the moment. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but thank you. There are some things I would like to take care of. What I was going to say,” Castiel continued, “was: Crowley.”

Michael deduced immediately what Castiel meant. “Let me guess, that’s how you found Gabriel and my son. What did you do? Forge my signature?”

Castiel shook his head. “Oh, no. You signed it. You just didn’t realize that was what you were signing. But now with Metatron under arrest…”

Michael sighed again. “Very well, I suppose I have a new Advisor. At least he has experience. Though we’ll see how long he lasts.”

“Ten years.”

“What?”

Castiel grinned. “If you had read it closely, you would have seen that his contract specified a minimum of ten years as your advisor.”

Red suffused Michael’s face. Castiel would remember this moment for the rest of his life, as he watched his brother sputter at having been tricked.

Dean laughed heartily, which made it even better.

Finally, Michael snapped, “One month,” at Dean, shook his head perfunctorily and stormed out.

Alone with Dean, Castiel took one step forward and Dean immediately sobered up.

Dean took a step, and Castiel took another.

They were close enough to reach out and—

A Mortaleigh soldier opened the tent flap. “Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head. “Commander Henriksen has requested further orders for the troops. There are many wounded that need to be brought back to the capital for treatment. And supplies will run low if we stay—”

“I understand,” Dean interrupted briskly, without looking away from Castiel standing before him. “I’ll be right there.”

The soldier nodded and closed the flap.

Dean raised his hand.

The flap opened again, this time to allow in a Calistamar soldier. “Lord Castiel, his highness, Prince Samandriel is asking for you. Also, Prince Gabriel has awoken and he will not allow anyone to approach him. The medics are hoping you can calm him down. They’re afraid they may have to physically restrain him.”

Castiel hesitated.

“That sounds urgent,” Dean said, his voice low and careful. “You should go.”

“But…” Still, Castiel hesitated.

Dean’s face was still, and his words firm. An eye in the storm of the emotions swirling inside Castiel, tugging him in every direction all at once.

Dean’s voice was steady as he said, “We both have our duties. I—I hope I will see you in one month’s time.”

Then Dean turned his back on Castiel and walked out.

Castiel didn’t know what to think. Just earlier that day, Dean had confessed that he still cared for Castiel. What had changed? Why did Dean suddenly no longer seem to want Castiel around?

Castiel could feel his heart cracking.

Was Dean keeping another secret from him that he didn’t want Castiel to find out?

Feeling hurt and confused, Castiel followed the Calistamar soldier to their camp.

Whatever Dean’s issue was, he had one month to figure it out.

Then Castiel was coming for him.

After Castiel had left, Dean was despondent.

He trudged with a heavy stride to the tent where the wounded were being tended to, where he had been told Henriksen was waiting for him.

Henriksen was just exiting the tent as he arrived, his mouth tight and eyes haunted.

“How bad?” Dean questioned him, dreading the answer.

“Fourteen dead. Thirty-two wounded, six seriously. Not nearly as bad as it could have been.”

“Plus the three we lost rescuing the princes. So, seventeen so far.” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. Though he was thankful the toll had not been higher, any death was a tragedy.

Henriksen opened his mouth. Closed it.

Dean frowned at him. “What else?”

Henriksen swallowed. “There’s something else you should know. One of the deceased… It’s Lady Jessica.”

A cold sweat enveloped Dean. His skin turned clammy and his chest tightened, making his breaths raspy and shallow.

Jess… _Sam._

He swallowed. Braced himself.

“Show me.”

_One month later…_

It was a mild day with the promise of spring in the air. Castiel had already shed the outermost layer of furs that he had bundled up in that morning when the air had still been chill.

He kept his eyes on the road ahead, watching for any sign of their destination. The road had gradually become busier and busier, so he knew they had to be getting close.

Ahead of him rode a flag-bearer holding Calistamar’s flag, a number of armed guards and Michael, decked out in all his finery upon his stallion, which was equally appointed. Just behind Michael rode Crowley in his new role as Michael’s Advisor.

Castiel wondered if Crowley already regretted his wish to work under Michael, but he seemed content enough at the moment.

Castiel followed behind Crowley, and beside him rode a silent Gabriel, with more guards behind them. Castiel worried for his brother. Gabriel, once he had started speaking again, claimed that he was fine, yet Castiel could tell that his brother was not back to his usual self.

Over the last month, Gabriel had not left the palace and had interacted very little with anyone besides Castiel, Samandriel and Naomi, when she had visited.

Gabriel’s formally ever-present wit was non-existent, and his Grace had yet to recover. At this point, Castiel wasn’t sure if it ever would.

He had convinced Gabriel to come with him on this journey in the hope that getting out into the world again and seeing some new places and faces would help Gabriel recover. It had taken a lot of convincing and Gabriel had only agreed after making Castiel promise to stop ‘trying to make him better’ if he did this. So, this was Castiel’s last shot, and so far, observing Gabriel’s solemn, unseeing gaze, nothing had changed.

On the plus side, Calistamar had cut all ties with Hellspyre. Meg had been returned home with Asmodeus’ body, while Dagon and Metatron were awaiting trial in Calistamar.

Unfortunately, Azazel was still king in Hellspyre, and there wasn’t anything anyone else could do about it, besides physically dethrone him in a war. And if the tensions between the two kingdoms of Liscalis and the kingdom of Hellspyre continued to rise as they had been over the past month, another war seemed to be on the horizon.

On the plus side, as soon as Michael had informed Lucifer of Azazel’s plot and shown him the proof thereof, Lucifer had chosen to leave Hellspyre. He hadn’t returned to Calistamar, but at least he wasn’t aligned with Azazel anymore.

At least Mortaleigh and Calistamar would be on the same side this time, if war did come again.

Castiel started to sigh, but right at that moment they crested a hill and he ended up sucking in a breath instead.

Below them spread Ashbourne, Mortaleigh’s capital city—Dean’s home.

It sprawled over significantly more land than Granamar, having obviously preferred to expand outward rather than upward as it had grown, which explained why they had been unable to see it until now.

Although lacking the ostentatious architectural embellishments that Calistamar prominently displayed, Mortaleigh had a much more practical approach, using strong, simple shapes and little design that wasn’t structurally necessary. Nonetheless, it was beautiful with its stonework making use of the natural pastel hues of the local stone, red clay tiles forming the roofs, and the cliff it backed onto making for a dramatic view of the sea.

At one of the highest points of the palace, which did rise a few stories above the rest of the city, was a balcony, where Castiel could just make out a figure standing. As they proceeded down the other side of the hill, the figure quickly disappeared into the palace.

The guards at the city’s main gate opened it immediately to let the envoy pass. They were then escorted through streets filled with curious onlookers, directly to the palace.

There were neither cheers nor curses from the crowd. In fact, the people were eerily quiet, simply watching the procession pass.

Castiel guessed that this passive coldness from the townsfolk would be commonplace between the citizens of Mortaleigh and Calistamar for quite some time to come as the two kingdoms recovered from the political strife and (thankfully brief) war between them.

Finally, they arrived at the palace’s main entrance.

At the top of a flight of steps, the oversized doors swung open. Castiel braced himself, and there he was.

Dean strode confidently down to meet them. He was dressed in full royal regalia—the first time Castiel had seen him in it. He wore a white, laced shirt underneath a stiff-looking, black coat, trimmed with a small amount of gold embroidery around the collar and cuffs. A heavy, fur-trimmed cloak in forest green was draped across his shoulders. It brushed the steps as he walked.

Dark green pants and high, black leather boots completed Dean’s ensemble, and on his head perched a gold crown, studded with emeralds and black onyx.

He looked like a king.

Castiel also couldn’t help but think that the green tones of his clothing really highlighted Dean’s eyes.

Castiel tore his own eyes away, and that’s when he noticed two other men following Dean down the steps. One, he recognized as Lord Robert Singer, Dean’s Advisor. The other could only be his brother, Prince Sam.

Sam was taller, broader, and wore his hair longer than his older brother. Castiel had heard much of Sam’s impartial, and at times ruthless, logic when it came to helping Dean protect Mortaleigh, but his face looked kind and open as he smiled at their party.

Although, there was also something lurking behind that smile. A haunted-ness that Castiel could only assume came from the loss Prince Sam had recently suffered: the death of his fiancé, the Lady Jessica Moore.

After his return to Calistamar, Castiel had heard the rumours that she had been struck down by an arrow during that last battle, and he hadn’t been able to help the pang of guilt that he felt at hearing that. And seeing Sam now, without Jessica by his side as his fiancé, nor seeing her following Lord Robert as his protégé, Castiel could see that the rumours were true.

Michael dismounted, a little later than may have been appropriate, and stood stiff and stern-faced as the king, prince and advisor approached.

Castiel followed Michael’s lead and dismounted as well. Crowley did the same, as did Gabriel beside him. Castiel snuck a glance at Gabriel to see how he was faring, yet to his surprise, Gabriel’s attention appeared to have been caught by the prince.

Interesting, Castiel thought.

Then Dean was standing before Michael and Castiel’s mind automatically refocused.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness. My Lords. Welcome to Ashbourne,” Dean said, formally greeting them.

Michael greeted Dean, Sam, and Robert in kind.

Dean spoke again, “I hope your stay here is enjoyable and well worth the journey. I am looking forward to establishing a new treaty after the earlier… misunderstanding.”

Michael bristled at the barely veiled accusation, but Castiel couldn’t help but think that the events after the war had been Michael’s own fault.

After word has gotten out that the ransom note had been faked and that part of Hellspyre’s royal family and their own advisor had been responsible for the kidnapping plot, the people of Calistamar had nearly rebelled against Michael.

Their main complaint being, and rightfully so, that Michael had thrown them into a war that could have been avoided.

It had only been the crown prince who had stopped them from starting a full-scale rebellion. Samandriel, with Anna’s support, had gone out and spoken to the people himself, generating sympathy with the tale of his imprisonment and pledging his gratitude and support toward his father, who Samandriel claimed had done everything in his power to get his son and brother back.

It was a clever maneuver. The people couldn’t rebel against Michael without also rebelling against the innocent Samandriel.

Castiel wondered if Anna or Samandriel had thought of the scheme, but he applauded Samandriel for his performance, nonetheless.

“I look forward to it as well,” Michael was saying, rather stiffly.

Dean summoned over a quartet of servants who had silently approached them as they had been talking.

“I am sure you must be tired,” Dean said. “These servants can show you to your rooms if you’d like to refresh yourselves.”

Michael nodded and immediately strode off, clearly impatient to get away from the conversation. One of the four servants rushed to catch up.

The second of the servant moved toward Gabriel, saying, “Your Highness, please allow me to show you to your room.”

Castiel glanced behind over and saw Gabriel staring off at the ocean, not paying the least attention to the people around him. Once again, Castiel worried for his brother.

The servant stood there awkwardly as Gabriel didn’t respond.

Prince Sam, however, took a step forward. “I can show Prince Gabriel to his room,” he offered.

The prince moved with deliberate slowness to stand in Gabriel’s view. Gabe’s eyes shifted to Sam, who had a kind and sympathetic expression for his fellow prince.

The pair of them had both suffered much over the last couple months, Castiel thought.

“There’s an amazing view of the ocean from your room,” Sam said gently. “Would you like to see it?”

Gabriel, so often silent since the kidnapping, didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch away either. Sam began moving toward the palace doors and, to Castiel’s relief, Gabriel followed, watching the other prince.

Sam waved at the servant who had tried to communicate with Gabriel to follow them.

“Where can I find a decent glass of Scotch?” Crowley asked of the remaining two servants. “And I mean the good stuff. Not some cheap swill.”

The servant subtly glanced at Dean, who nodded with an obliging grin.

“The liquor is kept in the cellar. Please follow me, my lord.”

Crowley rubbed his hands together, pleased. “Excellent. I bid you farewell for now, then. Your Majesty. Lord Castiel.”

Then it was just Dean, himself and the last servant standing on the front steps of Dean’s palace.

The servant waved his hand at the palace doors. “Please follow me, Lord Castiel,” he said.

Dean abruptly cleared his throat, and the servant looked over questioningly.

“Thank you, but, um,” Dean started, “I can take Cas—Lord Castiel from here. You may return to your other duties.”

To Castiel’s amusement, the servant actually raised an eyebrow at Dean. Dean had to narrow his eyes and pointedly incline his head toward the palace before the servant finally departed, shaking his head.

“Please, come inside. I can show you to your room,” Dean said to Castiel once they were alone.

“I think I’d rather take a walk first. I like to stretch my legs after a long ride.”

Dean nodded. He shifted on his feet, but didn’t move. Castiel didn’t move either.

Dean spoke first. “I didn’t hear from you this past month.”

“I was quite busy,” Castiel responded. It was the truth. There had been many affairs that he had needed to put in order the last few weeks.

“I had hoped…” Dean started, then stopped. “After what you said in my tent… I sent a letter to see if you could visit and we could talk.”

“I received it. But like I said, I was busy.”

Dean looked wretched, and Castiel nearly gave in. But he managed to hold firm.

“I suppose I will see you at dinner then,” Dean said solemnly. Then he turned and started walking, with shoulders hanging low, toward the palace.

“Wait,” Castiel called before Dean was a few feet away. “Would you show me the best place for a walk?”

Dean turned back, a spark of hope shinning in his eyes. “Of course,” he said eagerly.

Dean led Castiel to the palace garden that stretched between the palace and the cliffside. He watched Castiel’s expression as he stared in amazement at the vastness of the garden, so much larger than Castiel’s little patch of green in Granamar.

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmured, reaching out to touch a blush pink blossom. Dean was sure his face was the same shade. He clenched his hands into fists to stop their trembling from his nervousness and anxiety.

Castiel was here. In front of him. If only Dean could read Castiel’s mind to know where his thoughts were.

“I’m glad you like it,” Dean said.

“I do. I could wander around here for hours upon hours and still not be tired of it.”

Dean smiled, pleased. “Follow me. There’s a spot I want to show you.”

He had thought he might have had to wait until later on, after Castiel had taken a day or two to settle in here while the negotiations progressed, but there they were. And Castiel looked happy.

So, Dean decided to take the chance.

He guided Castiel to a section of the garden that had been recently re-done. The work was still visible in the fresh gravel and mulch, as well as some of the young trees surrounding it that had been added.

Having seen it all, Dean watched Castiel’s expression instead. So, he saw as Castiel’s eyes widened in surprise and then as they began to shine.

After taking it in for a moment, Castiel turned fully to face Dean. “It’s the bench. The same bench from my garden.”

“Well, not the _same_ bench,” Dean explained. “I had a stone mason carve that over the last month. He just finished the day before yesterday. It took a while because I had to explain every detail.”

“It was made from just your memory?”

Dean grinned. “Sort of. Mine and Charlie’s,” he admitted. Castiel frowned, making Dean chuckle. “You’ll have to meet her one day.”

“But how did you know?” Castiel asked. “That those are my favourite flowers?” He gestured at the riot of blue blossoms that surrounded the bench.

Dean was even amazed at himself. “I didn’t. But their scent reminded me of you, and that blue… It’s the same shade as your eyes.”

Castiel visibly melted. “Dean…” He took a step toward him.

Dean took a step toward Castiel as well.

They were inches apart, then Dean was leaning in, and Cas was leaning in. Lips met, bodies collided, and tongues slid against each other.

Castiel was gripping his coat as if he was afraid Dean would disappear. Dean knew there was no chance of that. Dean was touching Castiel’s face, his collarbone, his shoulders, every place that he could reach. Telling himself that this was real. That it was happening.

Castiel’s hands moved south, clasping Dean’s hips and pulling them flush. Dean moaned and felt Castiel shudder against him.

Then Castiel drew back from the kiss. He bit at his lip and Dean licked his own.

Dean caught hold of Castiel’s shirt before he could withdraw any further.

“What are we doing?” Castiel asked him. “Where do we go from here?”

Dean drew in a breath and responded, “That depends on you.”

Castiel looked at him with questioning eyes. “On me?”

Dean focused on the comforting heat radiating from Castiel’s body against his, soothing his nerves. “I know what I want. I want to you to stay. Here. With me. But what do you want? You said you still cared for me but…” Dean trailed off, his throat closing in a knot, choking off the words.

That was when Dean dropped to his knees. “I don’t know if you’ve forgiven me for lying about my identity, but please stay with me. And not as my consort. I want to court you properly. I know it’s a lot to ask. Leaving behind everything you know. I can only say this and hope it’s enough to convince you: I’ve fallen in love with you. Your compassion. Your tenacity. Your loyalty. I didn’t even realize how empty my life had been until you rode into it. I want to be a better king, a better man, for you. I want to be the man that you deserve in return. I—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, shaking his head. Dean’s heart stopped. “I have to stop you there.” Then he reached out, held Dean’s face in his hands, and said seriously, “You are already an amazing king and the best man that I know.”

Dean’s heart restarted and flew. “Cas, what are you saying?”

Castiel smiled and tugged Dean to his feet. “I’m saying that I love you too. I love your bravery, your stubbornness, your empathy, and all your quirks. I had always been searching for something, not knowing what exactly it was. I had no idea it would be you. But it is. It has always been you. And I knew that, truly knew it, from the night you left my estate.”

“_Cas_,” Dean breathed. He buried his face into Castiel’s shoulder, overwhelmed.

Castiel reached up and gently lifted his face back up. “I’m not done yet,” Castiel stated.

Dean gripped Castiel’s hand and kissed it, making Castiel flush. Dean smirked. “Then please continue.”

Castiel brought his hand to his mouth and nipped Dean’s fingers teasingly. Still smirking, Dean released his hand.

Castiel said, “When we left Calistamar yesterday, I wasn’t planning on going back. Or at least, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

“What?” Dean said with surprise.

It was Castiel’s turn to smirk. “I told you, I’ve been busy. I’ve been making the arrangements so that with just one letter to Mirabel saying that I’m not coming back, everything will be taken care of.”

“So, all this time, you had this planned?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes, but I couldn’t be certain that you would want me to stay, or in what capacity. I had also thought that a little revenge for hiding who you were from me was justified, but now I just regret every moment we unnecessarily spent apart.”

“Well, I can’t blame you for that,” Dean responded.

Castiel brushed his nose against Dean’s. “You had good reason to hide it. It’s okay. I was upset when I found out, but I understand.”

“So, you’ll stay?”

“For as long as I’m welcome.”

“So forever works for you?”

Castiel laughed. “Forever works. Though we do have a trip to a certain mountain lake to take.”

“Oh, trust me,” Dean said, laughing as well, “I have many plans for that trip.”

When Castiel kissed Dean then, it was a slow build, full of passion and promise.

However, when Dean pressed against Castiel, Castiel groaned and backed Dean up against on of the mature trees.

Dean didn’t seem to mind the rough bark against his back as Castiel gripped the globes of his ass and lifted him. Dean’s legs wrapped around Castiel’s waist and they both gasped at the friction against their clothed erections.

Dean’s hands were tugging at Castiel’s hair, and Castiel growled, nipping at Dean’s lips. Letting Dean’s weight rest against the tree and his hips, Castiel released his ass, took Dean’s hands and raised them above Dean’s head, pining them in place as he ground his cock against Dean’s.

He felt Dean shudder against him and abruptly realized what he had just done. Castiel immediately released Dean’s hands, pulling back to gauge Dean’s expression.

But Dean was just looking at him with lust-dazed confusion. “What is it?” he asked.

“I—confining your hands—I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry—”

“Cas,” Dean said huskily. “I’m okay. Honestly. I trust you. Just because it’s you.”

Castiel lost his breath, then crushed himself against Dean, wrapping his arms around him tightly. He felt more than heard Dean’s chuckle. “I’m sorry,” Cas mumbled into Dean’s neck, placing kisses on every bit of exposed skin.

“Cas,” Dean gasped, breaths coming short. “My bedroom. Now.”

“Yes, my king,” Castiel said teasingly.

He released him and they stumbled, flushed and aroused, laughing like errant school children, all the way to Dean’s bedroom.

A few days later, after the new Peace Treaty was signed, Michael and Crowley left to return to Calistamar. Castiel, side by side with Dean, watched them go from the same balcony that Dean had watched them arrive, feeling nothing but contentment.

Gabriel, to Castiel’s surprise, had also decided to remain in Mortaleigh. Castiel was pleased to see Gabriel looking less tired and sickly thin, as if he had started to sleep and eat properly once more. He guessed that he had Prince Sam to thank for that. Gabriel was rarely seen away from the side of the other prince.

Castiel absently wondered how that relationship would turn out. Individually, they both had a lot to work through, but he wished them both the same happiness and comfort that he and Dean had found in each other.

When Michael and Crowley, with their contingent of soldiers, had disappeared over the hill, Castiel and Dean returned inside.

One thing Castiel knew for sure was that his adventures with King Dean Campbell were only just beginning.

THE END … for now


End file.
